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Preface |
CHAPTER I
Mysticism and Religion, an Introduction -
Definition—There are two types of
religious life : the objective and the mystical—Innate traits at the root of
the two types of religious life.
CHAPTER II
Mystical Ecstasy as Produced by Physical
Means -
1.
The use of drugs and other physical means—The condition resulting
from the use of these drugs explain the meaning given to the word “ divine ”—2.
Description of the effects produced by certain drugs, Alcohol, Mescal,
Hasheesh, Ether, Nitrous Oxide—3. Summary of the effects of narcotics and
interpretation of their religious significance— Illusion and
hallucination—Alteration of organic sensations and feelings, illusion and hallucination—Alteration
of intellectual functions and of emotional attitude—The aim of religion is the
enhancement and perfecting of life, mystical ecstasy induced by physical means
produces an impression of enlarged and perfected life.
CHAPTER III
The Yoga System of Mental Concentration and Religious
Mysticism
The main propositions of the Yoga of
Patanjali—Hindrances to concentration and how to overcome them—Results—The
illogical craving for moral perfection manifested in Yoga— The effectiveness of
the Yoga methods.
CHAPTER IV
Christian Mysticism -------
1.
Historical and general remarks.—2. Heinrich Suzo—
3. Catherine of Genoa—Biographical—The
phases of St Catherine’s life—4. Mme Guyon—Biographical—The phases
of Mme Guyon’s life and their causes—Did
Mme Guyon attain her ethical goal ?—5. Santa Theresa—Biographical— The phases
of Santa Theresa’s life and their causes—Did Santa Theresa attain her ethical
goal ?—6. St Marguerite Marie.
CHAPTER V
The Motivation of Christian Mysticism _ _
What did the Christian mystics
seek?—1. The tendencies to self-affirmation and the need for self-esteem—2. The
dread of isolation ; the needs for moral support, for affection, and for peace
in passivity and in activity—3. The universalization or socialization of the
individual will—Analysis of the morally imperative impulse and the conditions
of its production— 4. The sex impulse—The connexion of affection and love with
organic sex activity—Autoreroticism in Grand Mysticism—The excruciatingly
delightful pains and other pains—Pleasure and happiness in mystical ecstasy.
CHAPTER VI
The Methods of Christian Mysticism -
1. Asceticism, its causes and its
utility—2. Passivity and the stages of the mystical union—The ascending series
of the mystical states according to Santa Theresa—The ascending series of the
mystical states according to Francois de Sales— The ascending series of the
mystical states according to Mme Guyon—Mystical trance in Buddhism, in
Islamism—The hypnotic trance—3. The confusion of the degrees of depth of the
trance with degrees of moral perfection—The ascending series of the mystical
degrees according to a Roman Catholic theologian—4. The Distinguishing traits
of “ Supernatural ” Mysticism—A. classification of trances and remarks
regarding the conditions of their production.
CHAPTER VII
The Moral Development of the Great Mystics and its Relation to the
Oscillations of their PsychoPhysiological Level -
Physiological and psychological factors
determined the so-called periodicity of their lives—No true periodicity is
observable—Exaltation and depression have in themselves no ethical
significance—Did these mystics obtain that which they set out to find in the
Christian religious life ?—Critical notes on Delacroix and Hocking.
CHAPTER VIII
The Great Mystics, Hysteria, and Neurasthenia - -
The most characteristic symptoms of
hysteria—Temperamental disposition and environmental incentives to hysteria
among the great mystics—Hysterical symptoms in St Catherine of Genoa—Hysterical
symptoms in Santa Theresa—The great mystics and neurasthenia—Hysterical and
neurasthenic symptoms may be allied with traits which make the genius.
CHAPTER IX
Ecstasy,
Religious and Otherwise : a Comparative Study I. Spontaneous ecstasy—Ecstasy as prodrome of epilepsy— Ecstasy in
neurasthenic and in normal persons—Ecstasy interpreted as due to God’s action
is religious ecstasy— 2. Ecstasies connected with the solution of moral
conflicts— The cases of Mrs Pa, Madame D., Carlyle, Rousseau, Miss X, Mlle V6,
etc.—3. Mystical ecstasy in English poetry— Wordsworth, Tennyson, James Russell
Lowell—4. Scientific inspiration, Henri Poincare, Sir Wm. Rowan Hamilton, etc.—
No essential difference between the mental processes of ordinary productive
thinking and the surprising instances of scientific inspiration.
CHAPTER X
The Main
Characteristics of Trance-Consciousness and Certain Attendant Phenomena, in
Particular those Producing the Impression of Illumination Disturbances of time and space perception, etc.—Photism— The
impression of levitation—The impression of increased moral energy—Other roots
of the conviction of ineffable revelation—Causes of the clearness and certainty
of ineffable revelation—The hypothesis of a higher intelligence in ecstatic
trance.
CHAPTER XI
The Sense of
Invisible Presence and Divine Guidance Definition and description of the experience—Observations and
experiments—Note on the sense of presence in contemporary psychology—The
effects of the impression of Divine Presence.
CHAPTER XII
Religion, Science, and Philosophy - - - -
1.
Science, and the belief in the gods of the religions—The kind of
facts upon which the belief in the Christian God rests— Antagonism between
science and the God of Christian worship
2.
Mystical trance and the conception of God ; the immediate
apprehension of God—The mystical claim—Wm James and mystical ecstasy—Wm Hocking
and religious mysticism— The thought of God always implies an elaboration of
the “ given,”of “immediate ” experience—The aspect of religious mysticism of
greatest significance for philosophy.
CHAPTER XIII
The Disappearance of the Belief in a Personal Superhuman Cause
and the Welfare of Humanity -
Would the replacement of the belief in
divine personal causation by the belief in impersonal causation, with which
science works, be calamitous ?—The utility of the belief in divine personal
causation in the physical and in the psychical world—The harm done by the
belief in personal divine causation—Statistics of belief in the Christian
God.—The origin of spiritual ideals and energy—The things of value in religious
mysticism—Certain aspects of the mystical method of soul-cure constitute an
approximation to the present-day more or less scientific methods of
psychotherapy.
Analytical Index of Subjects _____
Index of Authors
Experiences named “ mystical ” have played a conspicuous role at almost every
level of culture; and yet, despite the vast literature devoted to them, the
subject has remained until recently as dark as it is fascinating. Little could
be expected of writers who, neglecting a close and dispassionate study of the
facts, devoted themselves to religious edification or to the defence of the
traditional theories. The hortatory, apologetic, and romantic character of most
of the literature on religious mysticism accounts for its scientific
insignificance.
Mysticism has suffered as much at the
hands of its admirers as at the hands of its materialistic enemies. If the
latter have been unable to see in mysticism anything else than aberrations and
abnormalities, the former have gone to the other and equally fatal extreme; no
descriptive adjective short of "sublime,” "infinite,” " divine ”
has seemed to them at all sufficient.
The best among the prominent mystics
are persons of pure heart and stout will from whom it is not possible to
withhold admiration. Their beliefs and practices—whatever we may have to say in
condemnation of them—have been to these mystics a refuge against the conflicts
and the loneliness of life, and a source of strength and courage in the pursuit
of worthy purposes.
* * *
This book is a psychological study of
human nature. It includes, it is true, a philosophical chapter and also one in
which are set forth the practical consequences to religion of some of its
conclusions. But, whatever may be the importance of these two chapters, the
book is to be judged primarily as a psychological study of aspects of human
nature conspicuous in mystical religion. It represents an effort to remove that
part of " inner fife ” from the domain of the occult, in which it has too
long been permitted to remain, in order to incorporate it in that body of facts
of which psychology takes cognizance. If we may not expect to have succeeded in
producing a satisfactory answer to all the scientific problems raised by the
mystical life, we may at least hope to have convinced the reader that there is
in principle no satisfactory reason for leaving any of them outside the range
of scientific research, and that, on the contrary, they are all explicable in
the same sense, to the same extent, and by the same general scientific
principles as any other fact of consciousness.
In this book, as in the preceding
ones, we have proceeded according to the genetic method, i.e., we have begun
with mystical
experiences in early societies where
they are simpler and, therefore, more easily understood, and we have followed
them up in their main modifications and complications. We have, moreover, made
use of the comparative method, for it is quite impossible to come to adequate
conclusions in this field by remaining within the pale of religious life. Such
phenomena, for instance, as ecstatic trance and the impression of illumination
become comprehensible only when they are considered under the diverse
conditions in which they appear, i.e., out of, as well as in, religious life.
The terms, "tendency,”
"impulse,” "instinct,” "motive,” and the like, recur with great
frequency in the following pages. This fact may serve to indicate the point of
view from which the book is written. It proceeds from a dynamic conception of
human nature ; it is interested in behaviour and its springs, and it gives a
large place to the non-rational, and to the not-conscious.
In these directions this work falls in
line with the recent trends of psychological science. The author does not,
however, accept the Freudian conceptions in the form in which they are found in
the books of the Viennese physician. The terms of his vocabulary, libido,
introversion, extraversion, complex, psychical compensation, subconscious
activity, conflict, repression, substitution, etc., are rarely used in these
pages, and yet the discerning reader will not fail to realize that the facts
they designate are among the conspicuous facts discussed here.
* * *
This book has been long in the making.
My first studies in religious mysticism were embodied in an essay published in
two parts under the titles, Les Tendances Fondamentales des Mystiques
Chretiens and Les Tendances Religieuses chez les Mystiques Chretiens
(Rev. Philos., vol. LIV., 1902, pp. 1-36, 441-87).
Since that time our knowledge has been
enriched by a number of contributions of which I shall mention only those which
have been of particular value to me. First in date and brilliance came the Varieties
of Religious Experience, by William James, 1902 ; then H. Delacroix’s
penetrating Etudes d’Histoire et de Psychologic du Mysticisme, 1908;
Friedrich von Hugel’s conscientious and sympathetic Mystical Element of
Religion as studied in Saint Catherine of Genoa, 2 vols, 1909. A little
later appeared The Meaning of God in Human Experience, by William E.
Hocking, 1912, a remarkable expression of spiritual discernment served by a
rare literary talent; and, quite recently, five excellent chapters in James B.
Pratt’s The Religious Consciousness, 1920. Little of value on Christian
mysticism from the point of view of psychology has been published in Germany.
The book of Joseph Zahn, Einfuhrung in die Christliche Mystik
(Wissenschaftliche Handbibliothek, 1908) may be mentioned as of general
interest.
Among authors in fields other than
{the psychology of religion, I owe most to Pierre Janet, of the College de
France, who from the Automatisms Psychologique, 1894, to the Medications
Psycholo- giques, 1919, has not ceased to make valuable contributions to
our understanding of human nature. ■
* * *
The present volume completes the
execution of a plan for a somewhat systematic study of religious life, sketched
out after the publication of my Doctor’s Dissertation on Conversion (Studies
in the Psychology of Religious Phenomena—Conversion, Amer. Journal of Psychol.,
vol. VII, 1896)—a plan which, unfortunately, I was unable to follow closely
either with regard to content or with regard to order.
In two earlier books (A
Psychological Study of Religion : its Origin, Function, and Future, New
York, Macmillan, 1912 ; and The Belief in God and Immortality : a
Psychological, Anthropological, and Statistical Study, 1st ed., 1916; 2nd.
ed., Chicago, The Open Court, 1921) and in the present volume I have considered
the origin, the nature, and the function of the god-ideas, of the belief in
personal immortality, and of the mystical beliefs and practices. The discussion
of the origin and nature of the god-ideas and of religion involved a
discussion of the origin and nature of the primitive philosophy of man and of
magic, and the separation of magic from religion (Parts I and II of A
Psychological Study}.
Interest in the present status of the
cardinal beliefs of Christianity led me to carry out a statistical
investigation of contemporary belief in personal immortality and in the kind
of god implied in the worship of the existing religions (Part II, pp. 172-287
of Belief in God and Immortality). This investigation provides the first
definite and exact information regarding the number of believers, doubters, and
disbelievers in a number of classes of intellectual leaders, namely,
physicists, biologists, historians, sociologists, and psychologists, and also
among college students of non-technical departments. Among the important facts
brought out by these statistics are regular correlations between disbelief and
distinction attained in the branches of science named above.
On the basis of these studies of
origin and function, I was, moreover, led to write on the Latest Forms and,
the Future of Religion (Part IV of A Psychological Study), on the Present
Utility of the Beliefs in God and Immortality (Part III of Belief in God
and Immortality) and finally, on the Disappearance of the Belief in a
Personal Superhuman Cause and the Welfare of Humanity (last chapter of the
present book).
The relation of Theology to Psychology
is considered in Chapter XI of A Psychological Study. The conclusion is
reached that in so far as the present form of the belief in God among the
Christian people is maintained by facts of the “ inner life,” i.e., psychical
experiences regarded as requiring a personal God as causal Agent, it is a
belief dependent not upon metaphysics but upon psychological science. This
problem reappears in Chapter XII of the present volume.
* * *
Any one interested in the relation of
my work to that of other writers, notably Wm. James and H. Delacroix, should
bear in mind that my study of Christian conversion appeared in 1896 (E.
Starbuck’s Psychology of Religion was published in 1899. It was preceded
by an article, A Study of Conversion, Amer. Jr. of Psychol., vol. VIII,
1897) and the essay on the Christian mystics in 1902, the year in which Varieties
of Religious Experience was published. In so far as that book is a
psychological work it is based upon a study of Christian conversion and of
mysticism. In my two early essays just referred to on Conversion and on
Christian Mystics, numerous facts are set forth, analyzed, compared, and
classified. The method followed was, therefore, as in my later work, the
inductive method of the descriptive sciences.
My conception of magic and of its
relation to religion appeared first in print in The Psychological Origin and
the Nature of Religion (1909), a volume of the series of little books
published by Messrs. Constable, under the name, “ Religions Ancient and Modem.”
The substance of that booklet was incorporated, with some elaboration, in A
Psychological Study of Religion.
* * *
The substance of several chapters of
this book was used in a series of lectures delivered in the winter 1921-2 at
Cambridge University, St. John’s College (London), the Sorbonne, and at the
University of Neuchatel (Switzerland).
* * * * * 4=
I wish to express my indebtedness and
appreciation to E. H., L. D., and M. G. for their valuable assistance in
preparing this book for the press.
MYSTICISM AND RELIGION—AN INTRODUCTION
The term “ mysticism ” comes from a Greek word which designated those
who had been initiated into the esoteric rites of the Greek religion. At
present, however, it has at least two meanings. The wider and less definite of
them signifies anything marvellous or weird, anything which seems to reach
beyond human reason. We shall take the term “ mystical ” in a narrower sense ;
it will mean for us any experience taken by the experiencer to be a contact
(not through the senses, but “ immediate,” “ intuitive ”) or union of the self
with a larger-than-self, be it called the World-Spirit, God, the Absolute, or
otherwise1.
The following definitions, selected
from a large number of the same tenor, indicate that this use of the term is in
substantial agreement with the generally accepted understanding of it in
Protestantism : “ Mysticism is a deification of man,” it is “ a merging of the
individual will with the universal Will,” “ a consciousness of immediate
relation with the Divine,” “ an intuitive certainty of contact with the
supersensual world,” etc./ In this view, whatever tends to sharpen the
demarcation between the self and the not-self, whatever leads to anjsolation of
the subject from the Principle of Life, is anti-mystical. -
Among Roman Catholics, however, the emphasis
is not placed upon the union of the soul with the divine Principle, but upon a
superhuman knowledge. They say for instance : “ We give the name of mystic to
supernatural states containing a knowledge of a kind that our owp efforts and
our own exertions could never succeed in producing
.”( Mysticism is “ the final outcome of a congenital desire for
knowledge,” in particular of a knowledge “which Ues beyond the sphere of things
and of the senses by which things are perceived1.” This emphasis
upon superhuman knowledge is probably in agreement with the early Greek meaning
of the term, but the experience regarded both by Roman Catholics and
Protestants as mystical is, as we shall see, far too complex to be
satisfactorily defined in terms of acquired knowledge. It includes, it is true,
an impression of illumination or revelation, but that does not constitute the
only significant part of the experience.
* * *
No one doubts that mysticism as
defined in both these classes of definitions is included in the meaning of the
term religion. But disagreement exists as to whether refigion is always
mystical; whether, as some put it, mysticism is at the root of every religion,
so that in its absence no religion could have come into existence, and with its
withdrawal all religions would die2. It seems to us that a reference
to the facts establishes the existence of two types of religious relation : in
the one, it consists in objective, business-like transactions with God ; in the
other, it consists in communion ox. union with God or even in an absorption in
the divine Substance. These two different attitudes, and the different methods
of worship they involve, are observable throughout the history of religion,
both in private and in public worship. We find them among uncivilized races as
clearly as among ourselves. Miss Kingsley gives us an instance of objective
religion in the uncivilized when she relates how the chief of a West African
tribe, Anyambie, met his god. “ The great man,” she writes, “ stood alone,
conscious of the weight of responsibility on him of the lives and happiness of
his people. He talked calmly, proudly, respectfully to the great god who, he
knew, rules the spirit world. It was like a great diplomat talking to another
great diplomat .”
1
A. B. Sharpe, S. J., Mysticism ; its True Nature and Value,
London, Sands & Co., 1910, pp. 1-3.
2
William James, for instance, affirms, that " personal
religious experience has its root and centre in mystical consciousness,” The
Varieties of Religious Experience, p; 379. Similarly, William
Hocking writes of the mystics, " their technique which is the refinement
of worship, often the exaggeration of worship, is at the same time the essence
of all worship,” Mind, vol. XXI, N. S., p. 39. Delacroix, who in the
preface to Etudes d’ Historic et de Psychologic du Mysticisme says that
mysticism, understood as the immediate apprehension of the divine, is ‘ at the
origin of all religion,” recognizes nevertheless, on p. 306, that " The
Christianity of Bossuet excludes the Christian mysticism of Mme. Guyon. One
cannot deny that there are here two different forms of Christianity.” He opens
a more recent article on Le Mysticisme et la Religion with the words,
" There exist religions without mysticism.” Scientia, vol. XXI,
1917.
Under other circumstances this same
Anyambie might have behaved in a totally different way toward a less clearly defined
superhuman Power, if not this same god. He might, in a sacred ceremony, have
imbibed some narcotic beverage in company with men of his tribe, and have
regarded the wonderful feelings, the hallucinations, the sense of enlargement
and power he would have enjoyed, as participation in divine nature. For the
uncivilised maintain not only the objective, business-like religious relation,
they are usually familiar also with the mystical type of worship. “ The negroes
of the Niger had their ‘ fetish water,’ the Creek Indians of Florida, their ‘
Black Drink.’ In many parts of the United States the natives smoked stramonium,
the Mexican tribes swallowed the peyotl and the snake plant, the tribes
of California and the Samoyeds of Siberia had found a poisonous toadstool—-all
to bring about communication with the Divine and to induce ecstatic visions1.”
Mescal is one of the plants venerated by the Indians in certain parts of Mexico
and in neighbouring regions. The Kiowa Indians use it at night, usually in
front of a camp-fire, to the constant beating of drums. The men swallow at
intervals from ten to twelve buttons of mescal between sundown and 3 a.m. They
sit quietly until noon of the following day, when the effect of the drug has
worn off. It is regarded as the food of the soul. It has tutelary deities and a
special goddess. “ Its psychic manifestations are considered as supernatural
grace bringing men into relation with the gods
.”
The ancient worship of the Hebrew was
altogether of the objective type. Yahweh did not even maintain a relation with
individuals, his dealings were with the nation as a whole. When, later,
personal relations appeared, they remained for a long time external. Certain
Psalms and the later Prophets contain the earliest expressions of mysticism in
the religion of Yahweh’. Among the Greeks the worship of the Olympian
divinities was altogether non-mystical, and it is still an open question how
much mysticism is to be found in the mysteries.
Perhaps no semi-civilized people was
ever more free from mysticism, in our sense of the term', than the old Romans.
“ These people,” says J. B. Carter, “ could know nothing of their gods, beyond
the activity which the gods manifested in their behalf ; nor did they desire to
know anything. The essence of religion was the establishment of a definite
legal status between these powers and man, and the scrupulous observance of
those things involved in the contractual relation, into which man entered with
the gods. As in any legal matter, it was essential that this contract should be
drawn up with a careful guarding of definition, and an especial regard to the
proper address. Hence the great importance of the name of the god, and failing
that, the address to the ' Unknown God.’ A prayer was therefore a vow (votum),
in which man, the party of the first part, agreed to perform certain acts to
the god, the party of the second part, in return for certain specified services
to be rendered. Were these services rendered, man, the party of the first part,
was compos voti, bound to perform what he had promised. Were these
services not rendered, the contract was void. In the great majority of cases
the gods did not receive their payment until their work had been accomplished,
for their worshippers were guided in this by the natural shrewdness of
primitive man, and experience showed that in many cases the gods did not fulfil
their portion of the contract which was thrust upon them by the worshippers.
There were, however, other occasions, when a slightly different set of
considerations entered in. In a moment of battle it might not seem sufficient
to propose the ordinary contract, and an attempt was sometimes made to compel
the god’s action by performing the promised return in advance, and thus placing
the deity in the delicate position of having received something for which he
ought properly to make return1.” That is the objective religious
relation in all its nakedness.
Among Christian nations both the
objective and the msytical type of religion are usually found side by side. In
the controversy about Quietism, in which Bossuet and Felenon were the great
protagonists and Mme. Guyon the victim, Bossuet represents rational
Christianity, a Christianity in which man and God—the creature and the Creator,
the sinner and the Judge—remain face to face with each other. While Mme. Guyon
represents Christian mysticism in a form with which common sense could have
nothing to do. It is a relation in which the self dissolves in God.
The Christian mystics themselves
realize clearly enough this dualism. They say that these two attitudes are “
diametrically contrary to one another.” "There are,” they tell us,
"two sorts
1 Religious Life of Ancient Rome, Boston, Houghton Miffin Co., 1911 pp 12-3. ’ of
spiritual persons, internal and external: these seek God without, by discourse,
by imagination, and consideration : they endeavour mainly to get virtues by
many abstinences, maceration of body, and mortification of the senses ; bear
the presence of God, forming Him present to themselves in their idea of Him, or
their imagination, sometimes as a Pastor, sometimes as a Physician, and
sometimes as a Father and Lord.
“ But none of these ever arrives by
that only to the mystical, way, or to the excellence of union, as he doth who
is brought by the Divine grace, by the mystical way of contemplation. These men
of learning, who are merely scholastical, don’t know what the spirit is, nor
what it is to be lost in God1.”
Christianity as expressed in its
official creeds and books of worship is clearly an objective religion.
According to the ritual the worshipper comes into the presence of his God to
acknowledge his sins and to be cleansed from them, to receive protection from
bodily and moral harm, to return thanks for God’s goodness, to praise him, and
to rejoice in the assurance of his favour. But, just as intercourse between
sympathetic persons constantly tends to pass from externality to the intimacy
of united feeling and will, so, in the Christian religion, the objective
worship of a loving God tends .ever to glide into the trustful,
self-surrendering attitude which constitutes the first step towards complete
mystical union.
Mysticism, in its incipient stages at
least, is encouraged in the Christian Church
, but when it assumes the amazing aspects with which the famous
mystics have made us familiar, the Church becomes uneasy and watchful. For, in
his search for God, the mystic goes his own way. He is ready to brush aside
rites and formulae—even the priest who would sepve him as mediator—and
6 PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM he
issues from the divine union with a sense of superior, of divine, knowledge.
Persons of this kind may obviously be dangerous to the stability of old
institutions which have come to regard their truths as the only truths. But
these god-intoxicated persons may also perform the invaluable function of
innovators, revelators, and inspirers.
* * *
Types of behaviour so general and so
persistent as those expressed in the objective and the subjective types of
worship must, it seems, have their bases in different and fundamental traits of
human nature. These traits are not very difficult to discover. Most of the
specific tendencies and instincts with which man is endowed are roughly
classifiable in two groups. In the one there is fear and the various
expressions of aggression and aversion. In the other there is curiosity and the
expressions of liking and affection. The former finds satisfaction by the
disregard, or at the expense, of other selves; it leads to methods of life
which would separate the individual from the rest of the world and sharpen
self-consciousness. The latter seeks co-operation with other selves ; its
method is that of association, co-operation, and union.
Animal life began, it seems, with an
endowment of conflictinstincts. The appearance of the parental instincts
marked probably the introduction of the other type of endowment : the animal
family became the cradle of the co-operative method of life. Tn humanity, the
aggressive, self-sharpening attitude was for a long initial period the
conspicuous one ; the other attitude was called forth mainly, or only, in the
narrower circles of family and tribe. Even there, its expression was easily
inhibited by the dividing, destructive instincts. Only very slowly did men discover
the objective value of good-will and the subjective delight of spiritual union.
The powerful instinctive tendencies
which incline man to seek union of will and feeling with other selves receive
assistance from another quarter : striving with resisting other selves and
inanimate objects brings recurrent moments of weariness when the zest for the
strife disappears. How delightful it is then to close one’s eyes to the
multiplicity of things, to ignore the challenge of other wills, to renounce
effort, and to lose oneself in the silent, peaceful current of undifferentiated
life ! Both physical and moral causes bring on this inclination to
self-surrender. The pace has been too fast and the jaded nerves demand rest, or
dispiriting queries have arisen : ” What matter gains and conquests ; what boot
fortune, knowledge, human loves ? Nothing is perfect and nothing endures. Would
that I could overcome my spiritual
isolation, destroy the barriers which separate me from my fellow men, be one with
them, instead of struggling against them1.” In this mood the
will-to-union is given full career.
1 The roots out of which the two types of relation with the
Invisible World have developed penetrate so deep into human nature that their
growth may be traced in other directions, in particular in the processes of
thought. Thinking includes a double movement. Consider the man of science or
the philosopher ; they do their work by alternating analyses and syntheses ;
they cannot do it by one of these alone. There must be observation and
discrimination ; but when objects have multiplied under the analysing activity
of the mind, the severed things must somehow be united again ; they must be
seen in their connections. And, at least for some men, a unification of all
things must be reached ; a universe must be built out of the discreet objects.
Completed thinking implies these two movements : sundering and uniting.
MYSTICAL ECSTASY AS PRODUCED BY
PHYSICAL MEANS
Only by looking low, ere looking high,
Comes penetration of the mystery.
Browning.
Among most uncivilized populations, as among civilized peoples, certain
ecstatic conditions are regarded as divine possession or as union with the
Divine. These states are induced by means of drugs, by physical excitement, or
by psychical means. But, however produced and at whatever level of culture they
may be found, they possess certain common features which suggest even to the
superficial observer some profound connection. Always described as delightful
beyond expression, these ecstatic experiences end commonly in mental quiescence
or even in total unconsciousness. Common features should not, however, lead to
a disregard of dissemblances. The presence, for instance, of an ethical purpose
places some of these states in a separate and higher class.
In this chapter we shall confine
ourselves to mystical experiences induced by physical means, and chiefly by
drugs. Our main task is to discover their forms, their motives, and the
gratification they yield. Why their fascination and why the religious
significance ascribed to them ? These questions once answered, we shall be
prepared to undertake the study of higher forms of mysticism and to recognize a
continuity of impulse, of purpose, of form, and of result between the ecstatic
intoxication of the savage and the absorption in God of the Christian mystic.
* * *
1. The Use of Drugs and Other
Physical Means.
We have already had occasion to remark
that in nearly every savage tribe is found a knowledge of narcotic plants
employed to induce strange and vivid dreams or hallucinations. And we have
quoted Brinton who writes that “ in many parts of the United States the natives
smoked stramonium, the Mexican tribes swallowed the peyotl and the snake
plant, the tribes of California and the Samoyeds of Siberia had found a
poisonous toad-stool;—all to bring about communication with the Divine and to
induce ecstatic visions*.”
1
Daniel Brinton, The Religion of Primitive Peoples, p. 67.
The priest among certain Indian tribes
had apparently learned to snuff a “ certain powder called cohoba [perhaps
tobacco] up his nose which makes him drunk, so that he knows not what he does1.”
The Indians of New Mexico are “ unacquainted with intoxicating liquors, . . .
yet find drunkenness in the fumes of a certain herb smoked through a stone tube
and used chiefly during their festivals2.”
Of the New Mexicans, Bancroft says,
" drunkenness prevails to a great extent among most of the tribes ; their
liquors are prepared from the fruit of the ptahaya, mezquite-beans, agave,
honey, and wheat. In common with all savages, they are immoderately fond of
dancing, and have numerous feasts, where, with obscene carousals and unseemly
masks, the revels continue until the dancers, from sheer exhaustion or
intoxication, are forced to rest3.” These feasts have nearly always
a religious character.
Taken in moderation, mescal enables a
man to face the greatest fatigues and to bear hunger and thirst for several
days. A sort of pilgrimage is organized to gather the plant for festivals and
for private consumption. As the Indians approach the plants, they uncover their
heads and display every sign of veneration. Before gathering them they sprinkle
themselves with copal incense. In some tribes mescal is consumed only by
medicine men and certain selected Indians who sing invocations to it to grant a
" beautiful intoxication-*.” A rasping noise is made with sticks while men
and women dance before those who are under the influence of the god. The
remarkably beautiful coloured hallucinations produced by mescal have been
described by several experimenters.
In the Indic and Iranian cult there
was a direct worship of deified liquor analogous to Dionysiac rites. It has
even been maintained that the whole Rig Veda is but a collection of hymns for
Soma worship. It contains, in any case, a large number of such hymns. Soma, an
intoxicating liquor, was prepared from a plant unknown to us. It became
identified with the moon, and hence was called moon plant. The brahmanic priest
crushed in a small mortar the stalk of the plant and poured into the fire a
libation, usually to
1
Quoted by G. M. Stratton, The Psychology of Religious Life,
p. in, from Wilson, Prehistoric Man, 1865, p. 323,
2
H. H. Bancroft, Native Races, vol. I, pp. 566-7. Among the
old Mexicans, the most powerful of the ingredients used to make their festival
drinks intoxicating " was the teonanacatl, ' flesh of god,’ a kind
of mushroom which excited the passions and caused the partaker to see snakes and
diverse visions.” Loc. cit., vol. II, pp. 360, 601.
3
Loc. cit., vol. I,
v. 586. For intoxication among many different peoples, see Edward B. Tvlor, Primitive
Culture, vol. II, pp. 377*9, and G. M. Stratton, The Psychology of
Religious Life, pp. 108-14.
4
Ibid.
Indra; but he himself drank the
greater part of what he had prepared, until he became inebriated, or at least
until he felt the stimulating effect of the beverage. The drinking ceremony was
accompanied by magical incantations and invocations. The officiating priest
offered the liquor with these words : “ O, Indra, accept [our offering] . . .
drink of the soma, thou the friend of prayer and of the liquor, well disposed
God, drink in order to intoxicate thyself.” Here is one of the numerous
invocations made during the sacrifice : “ Come to us who have pressed out the
soma, come ; to our good praises drink, O helmeted hero, of the juice of the
plant, I pour it out, into the double cavity of thy belly; may it spread
through thy members ; may it be sweet to thy taste ; may it steal upon thee,
veiled, as women seeking a rendez-vous. Hero with the strong neck,
full-bellied, strong of arms, . . . O Indra, hurl thyself forward upon them
triumphing by thy strength. . . . O Indra, praised by many, accept the pressed
out soma, father of divine energy : drink, make the assuaging sap rain in upon
thee. . . . Let those who desire the inexhaustible celestial glories attach
themselves to Indra1.” The desire for sexual vigour is one of the
dominant notes of the soma hymns.
1 W. Caland and V. Henri, L’ Agnistoma, vol. I, pp. 162,
155, 249 ; vol. II, p. 311. According to these authors, soma was a usual
beverage or was perhaps reserved for totemic sacrifices, and later on came into
use as a sacrificial offering. They do not agree with Oldenberg in his opinion
that soma never had any importance in the Vedic cult. See vol. II, pp. 471-3.
It is not to be supposed that the use of intoxicating drugs in connection with
religion has vanished from India, according to the findings of the Indian Hemp
Commission, the use of narcotics in religion was on the increase in 1893, the
date of their report. The commissioners wrote :
" It is chiefly in connection
with the worship of Siva, the Mahades or great god of the Hindu trinity, that
the hemp plant, and more especially perhaps ganja [one of the preparations from
hemp] is associated. The hemp plant is popularly believed to have been a great
favourite of Siva, and there is a great deal of evidence before the Commission
to show that the drug in some form or other is now extensively used in the
exercise of the religious practices connected with this form of worship.
Reference to the almost universal use of hemp drugs by fakirs, yogis, sanyasis,
and ascetics of all classes, and more particularly of those devoted to the
worship of Siva, will be found in the paragraphs of this report dealing with
the classes of the people who consume the drugs. These religious ascetics, who
are regarded with great veneration by the people at large, believe that the
hemp plant is a special attribute of the god Siva, and this belief is largely
shared by the people. Hence the origin of many fond epithets ascribing to ganja
the significance of a divine property, and the common practice of invoking the
deity in terms of adoration before placing the chillum or pipe of ganja
to the lips. There is evidence to show that on almost all occasions of the
worship of this god, the hemp drugs in some form or other are used by certain
classes of the people. In a specialized recent form of worship of Siva, called
Trinath, the use of ganja is considered to be essential.”
“ The custom of worshipping the hemp
plant, although not so prevalent as that of offering hemp to Siva and other
deities of the Hindus, would nevertheless appear from the statements of the
witnesses to exist to some extent in some provinces of India.” Report of the
Indian Hemp Commission, vol. I, IS93-4, PP- 160, 161,
165.
In Greece also, intoxication was
customary in connection with established cults. The Pythia at Delphi after a
fast of three days, chewed laurel leaves, and in a state of intoxication stood
upon a tripod placed over an opening from which issued noxious vapours. Her
body shook, her hair stood on end, and out of her convulsed and frothing mouth
came the answers to the questions addressed to her. Wine drunkenness was
prominent in the worship of Dionysus. To the effect of the wine was added that
of dancing, music, shouting, and the expectation of divine ecstasy. Rhode makes
a vivid picture of the worship of the Thracian Dionysus: “The celebration took
place in the dead of night on the mountain tops by the flickering light of
torches. Noisy music resounded ; the pealing tones of cymbals, the hollow
thunder of kettle-drums, mingled with the ‘ frenzy-summoning harmony ’ of the
deep-voiced flutes. Stirred by this wild music, the crowd of worshippers danced
and shouted in exultation. We have no mention of songs ; for these, the
vigorous dancing left no breath. This was not the rhythmic dance with which,
perhaps, the Greeks of Homer’s age accompanied their paeans, but a frenzied,
whirling, plunging sort of round in which the crowd of inspired devotees rushed
about over the mountain slopes. For the most part it was women, oddly clad, who
whirled about to the point of exhaustion. They wore ‘ Bassaren,’long flowing
garments, apparently made of fox-skins ; over these they wore besides,
deer-skins with the horns sometimes remaining on the head. . . . Thus they
raved, until they reached the utmost excitement. In this ‘ holy madness ’ they
rushed upon the animals chosen for the sacrifice, and tore off with their teeth
the bloody flesh, which they devoured raw1.’’
* * *
But drugs are not the only physical
means of producing the ecstacy dear to men of every degree of culture.
Deprivations of food and sleep, isolation, even active tortures are well-known
and frequent means of religious ecstasy. Rhythmic bodily movements and shouting
or singing, when long continued, yield results similar in several respects to
that of alcohol, stramonium, mescal, and other drugs.
The American Indians made much use of
fasting. In certain ceremonies “ they fasted sometimes six or seven days, till
both their bodies and minds became free and light, which prepared them to
dream. The object of the ancient seers was to dream of the sun ; as it was
believed that such a dream would enable them to see 1 Erwin Rhode, Psyche,
Seelencult und Unterblichkeitsglaube, 4th ed., Tubingen, 1907, vol. II, pp.
9-10.
everything on the earth. And by
fasting long and thinking much on the subject, they generally succeeded. Fasts
and dreams were at first attempted at an early age. What a young man sees and experiences
during these dreams and fasts, is adopted by him as truth and it becomes a
principle to regulate his future life. He relies for success on these
revelations. If he has been much favoured in his fasts, and the people believe
he has the art of looking into futurity, the path is open to the highest
honours1.”
“ We may judge of the mental and
bodily condition of the priest and sorcerer in Guyana, by his preparation for
his sacred office. This consisted in the first place in fasting and
flagellation of extreme severity; at the end of his fast he had to dance till
he fell senseless, and was revived by a potion of tobacco-juice, causing
violent nausea and vomiting of blood; day after day this treatment was
continued till the candidate, brought into or confirmed in the condition of a ‘
convulsionary,’ was ready to pass from patient into doctoi2.”
From The Beginnings of Art, by
Grosse, I take the following description of native dances known throughout the
Australian continent. They leave the participants in a condition in many
respects similar to that produced by intoxicating drugs.
“ The corroborries are always
performed at night, and generally by moonlight. The largest and most noteworthy
festivals apparently take place on the conclusion of a peace ; moreover, all
the more important events of Australian fife are celebrated by dances—the
ripening of a fruit, the beginning of the oyster dredging, the initiation of
the youth, a meeting with a friendly tribe, the march to battle, a successful
hunt.
“ It is astonishing how accurately the
time is kept; the tunes and the movements are all in unison. The dancers move
as smoothly as the best-trained ballet-troupe. The dancers gradually become
more excited ; the time-sticks are struck faster ; the motions become more
rapid and vigorous ; the dancers shake themselves, spring into the air to an
incredible height, and finally utter a shrill cry, as if from one mouth. The
excitement is at its height; the dancers cry out, stamp, and jump ; the women
beat time as if they were crazy, and sing with all the strength of their lungs
; the fire, which is blazing up high, scatters a shower of red sparks over the
wild scene ; and then the director raises his arms high over his head ; a loud
clapping breaks through the tumult, and the next instant the dancers are gone.
No protracted research is needed to estimate the pleasure these gymnastic and
mimetic performances afford to the performers
1
Edward B. Tylor, Primitive Culture, vol. II, p. 373.
2
Loo. cit., pp.
379-80, quoted from Meiners, vol. II, p. 162.
and spectators. Therejs no other
artistic act which moves and excites, all men like the dance. In it primitive
men doubtless find the most intense aesthetic enjoyment of which they are
generally capable1.”
But aesthetic pleasure is certainly
not the only thing we are to take into account in connexion with the frequent
wildly exciting ceremonies of the native Australians. There is, above all, in
these performances as in drug-intoxication, a delightful surrender of
self-restraint, a sense of power, an enjoyment of the sensuous pleasures
arising from unrestrained, intense movement, and, in addition, the fascination
of belief in the superhumanness of the experience. Spencer and Gillen report
several ceremonies characteristic of a mental condition in several respects
comparable with that of intoxication by drugs. The fire ceremony of the
Warramunga tribe is one of these. It takes place at night. The preparations
completed, the performance opens with one of the men “ charging full tilt,
holding his wanmanmirh like a bayonet, and driving the blazing end into
the midst of a group of natives, in the centre of which stood a man with whom,
a year before, he had had a serious quarrel. Warded off with clubs and
spear-throwers, the torch glanced upwards. This was the signal for the
commencement of a general melee. Every wanmanmirri was blazing
brilliantly, the men were leaping and prancing about, yelling wildly all the
time ; the burning torches continually came crashing down upon the heads and
bodies of the men, scattering lighted embers all around, until the air was full
of falling sparks, and the weird, whitened bodies of the combatants were alight
with burning twigs and leaves. The smoke, the blazing torches, the showers of
sparks and the mass of dancing, yelling men with their bodies grotesquely
bedaubed, formed altogether a genuinely wild and savage scene of which it is
impossible to convey any adequate idea in words2.”
The Mohammedans, whose religion
forbids wine, contrive nevertheless to secure a condition similar to liquor
intoxication. An order of Sufis, founded probably in the twelfth century,
distinguish themselves from their co-religionists by strange and extravagant
dancing, continued until partial anaesthesia and even unconsciousness resulted.
These Sufis were divided, according to the nature of the dancing, into
shouting, gyrating, and dancing dervishes. The following is part of a detailed
description by an eye-witness.
1
E. Grosse, The Beginnings of Art, chap. VIII, much
abbreviated.
2
Northern Tribes of Central Australia, pp. 389-91. The use of narcotics among Australians is very rare.
I find, however, in Native Tribes of Central Australia, p. 528 mention
of " native tobacco ” as being given to the young men to chew when they
are made medicine men.
“ The exercises which are followed in
these halls are of various kinds, according to the rules of each institution ;
but in nearly all they commence by the recital, by the sheikh, of the seven
mysterious words of which we have spoken. He next chants various passages of
the Koran, and, at each pause, the Dervishes placed in a circle round the hall,
respond in chorus by the word ' Ahhah ! ’ or ' Hoo ! ’ In some of the societies
they sit on their heels, their elbows close to each other, and all making
simultaneously light movements of the head and body. In others, the movement
consists in balancing themselves slowly, from the right to the left, and from
the left to the right, or inclining the body methodically fore and aft.”
The ceremony is completed in five
scenes ; we may omit the description of the first three. “ After a pause
commences the fourth scene. Now all the Dervishes take off their turbans, form
a circle, bear their arms and shoulders against each other, and thus make the
circuit of the hall at a measured pace, striking their feet at intervals
against the floor, and all springing up at once. This dance continues during
the Ilahees chanted alternately by the two elders to the left of the sheikh. In
the midst of this chant the cries of ' Ya Allah ! ’ are redoubled, as also
those of ‘ Ya Hoo ! ’ with frightful howlings, shrieked by the Dervishes
together in the dance. At the moment that they would seem to stop from sheer
exhaustion the sheikh makes a point of exerting them to new efforts by walking
through their midst, making also himself most violent movements.
“ The fourth scene leads to the last,
which is the most frightful of all, the wholly prostrated condition of the
actors becoming converted into a species of ecstasy which they call Halet. It
is in the midst of this abandonment of self, or rather of religious delirium,
that they make use of red-hot irons. Several cutlasses and other instruments of
sharp-pointed iron are suspended in the niches of the hall, and upon a part of
the wall to the right of the sheikh. Near the close of the fourth scene two
Dervishes take down eight or nine of these instruments, heat them red-hot, and
present them to the sheikh. He, after reciting some prayers over them, and
invoking the founder of the order, Ahmad or Rufaee, breathes over them, and raising
them slightly to the mouth, gives them to the Dervishes, who ask for them with
the greatest eagerness. Then it is that these fanatics, transported by frenzy,
seize upon these irons, gloat upon them tenderly lick them, bite them, hold
them between their teeth, and end by cooling them in their mouths. Those who
are unable to procure any, seize upon the cutlasses hanging on the wall, with
fury, and stick them into their sides, arms, and legs.
“ Thanks to the fury of their frenzy,
and to the amazing boldness which they deem a merit in the eyes of the
Divinity, all stoically bear up against the pain which they experience with
apparent gaiety. If, however, some of them fall under their sufferings, they
throw themselves into the arms of their confreres, but without complaint
or the least sign of pain. Some minutes after this, the sheikh walks around the
hall, visits each one of the performers in turn, breathes upon their wounds,
rubs them with saliva, recites prayers over them, and promises them speedy
cures. It is said that twenty-four hours afterward nothing is to be seen of
their wounds1.”
Very recently a " new ” religion,
called the Ghost-Dance religion, has arisen among the semi-civilized Indians of
the United States2. In this instance, more conspicuously than in
those before mentioned—except, perhaps, in the dervish dancing—psychic means •
are added to the physical: auto-suggestion in the form of a definite intention
and expectation of transcending the limitations of ordinary I life and
entering into relation with the gods is a very influential factor in producing
ecstasy.
Dancing in order to arouse a divine
furore is not of course confined to the religions of the savages and of the
Mohammedans. Civilized Europe has had its dancing sects, and new ones continue
to appear now and again. As late as 1907, New York City received the missionary
visit of the " Holy Jumpers,” a Christian dancing sect moved to compassion
by the wickedness of the great city3.
1
From Brown’s Dervishes, pp. 218-22, as quoted by J. W.
Powell, in Fourteenth Annual Report of the Bureau of Ethnology, Part IT,
1896, pp. 948-52. What is said above of the Dervishes is, of course, not to be
taken as adequately representing Sufism which really belongs with the ethical
religions.
2
For a description of the Ghost-Dance religion, see the Fourteenth
Report of the Bureau of Ethnology, (U.S.), 1892-3, pp. 915-28.
3
The “ Holy Jumpers ” are now preparing to move from their idyllic
country home in western New Jersey to the wickedest quarters here. Between
their dances, which include every manner of step, from the Dervish’s whirl to
the sailor’s horn-pipe, they will warn New Yorkers of the destruction that is
bound to come, in the shape of a pillar of fire. The Jumpers will make extraordinary
efforts to interest the city in the weird gyrations which give them their name,
and if they are successful they will establish a colony and missionary school
such as they have in Denver, their parent city. At any stage of the “ Holy
Jumpers’ ” meetings the inspiration to dance is likely to seize on members,
with a shout of joy one begins.' Perhaps he starts by waltzing alone around the
ring. Another joins him. They grasp shoulders, and the waltz livens into a movement
like a very rapid two-step. Then they stop, face each other, and whirl like
Dervishes, ending their performance by jumping high in the air, and sometimes
half turning before reaching the ground. Excited by the dance and singing and
the shouts, others join, women skip about like school-girls, and seize and drag
one another into the circle. By and by the whole assemblage is whirling and
jumping and shouting, but the women never dance with the men.—From a newspaper
report.
But with the dawn of a spiritual
conception of the Divine, the use of drugs and of mechanical means could hardly
continue in favour. These grossly material methods are incongruous with a
spiritual conception of the gods. Furthermore, they produce after-effects
which, because disagreeable or debasing, or both, cannot easily be reconciled
with the theory of god-possession. Yet, ecstatic states are too delightful, too
wonderful; they gratify too many deep needs, to be given up. Therefore it was
that, groping in the dark, men gradually evolved a method of ecstasy apparently
consistent with a higher conception of divine nature : the psychical method.
That method is to occupy our attention in subsequent chapters.
The displacement of physical by
psychical means was, of course, gradual and never, complete. As a matter of
fact, in the ceremonies of savages psychical influences are present; while, in
the production of even the highest forms of religious ecstasy, assistance is
obtained from a diversity of physical means. As far as actual causation is concerned,
the difference is rather one of the degree in which these two classes of
factors contribute to the result.
Both physical and psychical means are
clearly in evidence in the worship of Dionysus and of Soma. In Moslem mysticism
and in Yoga practices, to which a special chapter will be devoted, physical
means vie in importance with the psychical. In Christian mysticism, the latter
only are officially recognized, although physical influences have not ceased to
lend their aid. The inchnation to employ even some of the coarser physical
means still lingers among us. In the so-called “ revival meeting,” the
monotonous repetition of rhythmical songs, accentuated by shouts and bodily
movements, helps to produce a condition similar to that through which the dervish
attains partial anaesthesia and visions of Allah.
* * *
We have set forth a fact as surprising
as undeniable : .both among savage and civilized peoples, states of ecstatic
intoxication are regarded as the culmination of man’s commerce with a superhuman
world. Why this association ? The usual answer, that ecstasy brings superhuman
powers such as healing, making rain, destroying enemies, forcasting the future,
controlling spirits, and the like, leaves unmentioned the deeper and most
influential causes of the fascination.
That superhuman powers are supposed to
be acquired by the ecstatic is well attested and perhaps already sufficiently
illustrated. It is in a state of inebriation that the Hottentot conjurer is
thought to act most successfully upon spirits1. The Ololiuhqui
of the old Mexicans was used by priests to produce visions of hidden and future
things2. “ In Peru the priests whose special office it was to
converse with the gods of towns or provinces were accustomed to produce in
themselves ecstasy by a narcotic drink called ' tonca ’; and while in this
ecstatic state it was believed that they were inspired5.” The
present-day dervish obtains peculiar “ spiritual ” powers, called Kuvveh i
roohe, through long performances ending in a hallucinatory condition. Thus
he gains “ the faculty of foreseeing coming events ; of predicting their
occurrence ; of preserving individuals from harm and evil which would otherwise
certainly result for them, . . . of restoring harmony of sentiment between
those who would otherwise be relentless enemies4.” The opinion that
frenzy had in it something of the divine was still widespread among the Greeks
in Plato’s time. In the Phaedrus, Socrates is made to say : “ For the
prophetess at Delphi, you are well aware, and the priestesses of Dodona, have
in their moments of madness done great and glorious service to the men and the
cities of Greece, but little or none in their sober mood. As much then as
divination is a more perfect and a more precious thing than augury, both in name
and efficiency, so much more glorious, by the testimony of the ancients, is
madness than sober sense, the inspiration of Heaven than the creation of men5.”
That superhuman knowledge and
marvellous powers do not account completely for the fascination of ecstatic
states appears clearly enough when it is recalled that, even when these powers
are known to be illusory, intoxicating drugs continue to inspire the pen of the
poet and to allure the ordinary mortal beyond all power of resistance. To the
reality of these other attractions, the numberless lovers of wine, opium,
hasheesh, and other drugs, who, uninfluenced by thoughts of a superhuman world
have gone to their ruin with eyes
1
H. H. Bancroft, Native Races, vol. II, p. 601.
2
Ibid.
3
Rivero and Tschudi, Peruvian Antiquities, English
translation by Hawks, 1853, p. 184, quoted by Stratton, loc. cit., p.
108.
4
Brown’s Dervishes, p. 129, ff. It might be said that the
condition produced by, let us say, mescal, is regarded as divine because mescal
is a sacred plant, i.e.’, it contains a sacred, god-like principle. But this
would be an invertion of the true causal relation. It is because of real
and imaginary effects that mescal is supposed to possess divine power.
5
“ There is a possession and a madness inspired by the Muses, which
seizes upon a tender and a virgin soul, and, stirring it up to rapturous
frenzy, adorns in ode and other verse the countless deeds of elder time for the
instruction of after ages. But whosoever without the madness of the Muses
comes to knock at the doors of poesy, from the conceit that haply by force of
art he will become an efficient poet, departs with blasted hopes, and his
poetry, the poetry of sense, fades into obscurity before the poetry of
madness.”— Plato’s Phaedrus.
i8 PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM wide
open, offer a tragic testimony. We are here in the presence of a fact of the
widest and deepest social significance1.
There are those who are satisfied when
they have described these states as divine possession or union. But nothing is
thereby explained, unless first the meaning of these expressions be set forth
in concrete detail; for, the term “ divine ” in itself throws no light upon
these facts. It is the reverse ; “ divine ” gets whatever significance it
may possess from the experiences to zvhich it is applied. In undertaking a
psychological analysis of these so-called divine experiences, we shall,
therefore, enter upon an investigation of the meaning ascribed to the term “
divine ” in so far as it is applied to them. According to the measure in which
we shall succeed in fulfilling that task shall we escape the barrenness and
confusion of those who think they have explained this or any other phenomenon
when they have referred it to a “ divine ” agent.
* * *
11.
Description of the Effects produced by Certain Drugs.
Alcohol.—We may preface the following description with a few words on the
similarity of the effects produced by different drugs. Some years ago the Roman
Catholic Church undertook in Ireland a crusade against whisky. It met with
considerable success but, to the surprise of all, ether took the place of
whisky. In a few years, ether drunkenness became so common among the Romanists
in a district
1
Statistics of the amount of alcohol and opium consumed, in the
face of strenuous opposition due to a definite knowledge of the serious
material and spiritual harm they produce, help us to realize their fascination.
The amount of alcohol consumed in the
civilized world is one of the staggering facts of modern history. In the United
States the per capita consumption of alcohol in its several forms has
steadily increased up to 1914. The total consumption of malted liquors, beers,
wine, and spirits in the U.S. rose in 1914 to 2,252,272,000 gallons. Of this
52,417,000 gallons were wines, about 150,000,000 spirits, and 2,050,000,000
malt liquors. The total expenditure involved in this consumption reaches
almost 600,000,000 dollars—the value of our entire wheat crop at that time.
The per capita consumption of
alcoholic beverages was in 1914 considerably higher in Germany than among us.
For wine, it was twice as large. In England at the same date, the use of
distilled liquor and wine was less than in this country, but that of malted
liquors much more considerable.
In China the consumption of opium had
reached in 1906, 22,588 tons. The significance of this figure is evident when
it is recalled that about seven grains make a dose. The Government, realizing
the seriousness of the danger, entered at that time upon a compaign destined to
bring to an end after ten years, both the manufacture and the use of opium.
This purpose "is still far from having been attained.
Anyone with enough imagination to
estimate the moral degradation and the physical decay produced by these drugs,
and the financial waste their use entails, will stand aghast at the prodigious
sway they possess over mankind.
on the borders of Tyrone and Derry
that a writer in the Medical Times declared : “ The odor of the breath
is enough to learn to what religion a man belongs ; alcohol characterizes the
Protestant, ether the Roman Catholic1.”
Not only can certain drugs be successfully
substituted one for another, but methods of ecstasy as dissimilar as the
mechanical and the, psychical may, as we have seen, replace drugs, in so far
as the “ divine ” significance of their effects is concerned. The extent of
these similarities cannot be discussed before we have made ourselves familiar
with the whole range of ecstatic, mystical phenomena. At this time we shall
remark only that successful substitution is a token of the presence not merely
of common effects but of essential common effects.
If literary descriptions are neither
complete nor exact, they bring out at least dominant features, and so we may
begin with this eloquent panegyric of whisky by one who saw in its effects no
religious significance : “ I send you,” writes Ingersoll to a friend, “ some of
the most wonderful whisky that ever drove the skeleton from the feast, or
painted landscapes in the brain of man. It is the mingled souls of wheat and
corn. In it, you will find the sunshine and the shadow that chased each other
over the billowy fields, the breath of June, the carol of the lark, the dew of
night, the wealth of summer, and autumn’s rich content, all golden with
imprisoned fight. Drink it and you will hear the voices of men and maidens
singing the ' Harvest Home,’ mingled with the laughter of children. Drink it
and you will feel within your blood the star-led dawns, the dreamy, tawny dusks
of many perfect days. For forty years this liquid joy has been within the happy
staves of oak longing to touch the lips of men
.”
Alcohol is forbidden by the Koran.
Yet, wine is extensively used among the Persian Mohammedan sects known as Sufi.
No poets have sung with more conviction the delights that are in wine than
Persian poets. In the following passage Dr. Lehman points to some of the
attractions of alcohol that are independent of a transcendental interpretation.
“ A state of exquisite exhaustion in which every limb is in complete repose, in
which thinking becomes brooding absorption, while the soul revels in
melancholy sensuality or senselessness, is the Oriental’s most cherished
experience, his paradise on earth.” “ The more he is weakened by the
oppressiveness of the climate, or languishes under arbitrary administration,
poverty, national disorder, or individual disadvantages, the more comfort he
finds in roaming those nam eless distances which are untouched by earthly
change, or in losing himself in ecstatic self-abandonment. And therefore he
drinks ; drinks, regardless of Koran and bastinado, drinks to-day like the
Persian poets of the Middle Ages drank before him. ' Drunkenness,’ says
Gobineau, ‘ is the hereditary sin of the central Asiatic.’ This vice, which
Mohammed fought against so zealously, all the people succumb to1.”
“ Hear what Hafiz says : ‘ The rose
has unfolded its petals, and the nightingale is in a transport of delight. Now
up and rejoice, ye Sufis, if ye love wine / See how the crystal goblet
breaks the stony wall of remorse ! Bring wine, for in the royal abode of
contentment there is no difference between king and serf, between wise and
foolish2 ’.”
If we are to believe these and similar
descriptions, alcohol is valued because it introduces us into a world throbbing
with delightful, sensuous life, or produces a peaceful inactivity equally
desirable. In the former case, it peoples the mind with pleasant imagery,
promotes gaiety, and obliterates painful memories and distracting
apprehensions.
Recent observations under controlled
conditions have added precision to the literary descriptions of the effects of
alcohol. As we proceed with a brief summary of some of these, we remind the
reader that our primary purpose is the discovery of the meaning of “ divine,”
as used by those who see in the effects of various drugs a divine
transfiguration. We may expect to learn much that will be useful in the
subsequent investigation of the nature and meaning of Christian mystical
ecstasy.
To four observers, mature University
students and total abstainers, Partridge
gave, at intervals of from half an hour to an
1
Dr. E. Lehmann, Mysticism in Heathendom and Christendom,
London, 1910, pp. 61-3, The inner quotations are from Gobineau, Les
religions et les philosophies dans l’Asie centrale, 2nd. ed., p. 68,ff.
2
Loc. cit., pp.
70-1. The italics are mine.
The following impressionistic
description of a phase of opium consciousness may perhaps find place here :
" The dream commenced with a music of preparation and awakening suspense,
a music which gave the feeling of vast march, of infinite cavalcades filing
off, and the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty day
; a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffering some
mysterious eclipse, and labouring in some dread extremity. Somewhere, I knew
not where,—somehow, I knew not how, by some being, I knew not whom,—a battle, a
strife, an agony, was conducting, was evolving like a great drama or piece of
music.”—De Quincey’s Confessions. hour,
six doses of alcohol, each of 100 grams of 16 per cent, alcohol. Soon after the
first dose he noted in everyone of them the appearance of an increased feeling
of self-confidence “ which gradually deepened into recklessness and bravado.”
At the same time, although no noticeable decrease of sensibility had as yet
taken place, there was a considerable decrease of alertness to external stimuli
and of precision in following the instructions received. After several doses it
became very difficult to induce the subject to conform to them.
At a definite stage of the
experiments, the observers desired “ to throw off all restraint,” and realized
that they were losing their self-control. Dunbar’s subject under the influence
of ether expressed in picturesque language the same desire ; and Robinson,
after taking hasheesh, exclaimed, throwing off his blankets, “ throw off the
bonds of all existence1.”
There was also a period during which
every one of Partridge’s subjects was inclined to be humorous. Their attempts
frequently betrayed a sense of superiority which, in a normal state, is either
not felt or carefully concealed. This is apparent in the results of “ free
association ” tests. These tests bring out also the presence in one phase of
intoxication of a conviction of power, of efficiency, of freedom. Whereas, when
the subject was in a normal condition, the words " muscle,” “ blue,” "
free ” and “ disappointed,” brought out respectively the following
associations, “ strength,” " blazes,” " generous,” “ regretful ” ;
after alcohol they called up the following ideas : (muscle) “ when a man is on
his muscles, folks have to look out for him ” ; (blue) “ I am never blue ” ;
(free) “ makes a man independent of any restriction ” ; (disappointed) “
something I never was.” A man who can say sincerely that he never was
disappointed, has forgotten a large part of his past. The exaltation of the
self indicated in these responses is not constant throughout the increasing
intoxication ; there may be moments of depression. But it is sufficient for us
to point out those features that bear upon our special problem.
The foregoing description does not fit
in every respect each and every case. There are, for instance, persons qui
ont le win triste, as the French say. We are not concerned with them. Those
whom alone we must take into consideration are the ones who have made the
reputation of alcohol as a “ divine ” beverage. Neither are we to regard its
undesirable later effects, temporary or permanent. Men drink and sing the glory
of intoxicating drugs in spite of these aftereffects.
1 Victor Robinson, An Essay on Hasheesh, Medical Review of
Reviews, New York, 1912, p. 59.
The observations of Partridge indicate
wide disturbances, the whole body seems more or less involved. There is, in
particular, incoordination of the limbs and well marked tendencies to illusion
or hallucination due to functional disturbances of the external and internal
sense-organs. In one instance, the sensory disturbances were considerable
enough to produce a feeling of the unreality of the body or of a changed body,
and to invest the outside world with extraordinary aspects. In several, if not
in all the subjects, there appeared at a certain stage of intoxication, a sense
of well-being, of power, and of freedom, expressed with an abnormal degree of
conceit.
Result of the more exact,
quantitative, study of the effects of alcohol. An important outcome of the quantitative study of alcohol is the
demonstration of the incorrectness of the current opinion that alcohol
increases the capacity for work, physical or mental. At a certain stage of its
action it may increase muscular activity and produce exuberance of spirit, but
although the number of movements and the mental vivacity may increase, muscular
energy and mental efficiency, as measured by the amount of work performed,
never do ; on the contrary, they decrease.
Kraepelin, Partridge, and others have
found that taken in small doses alcohol stimulates motor activity for a
relatively short time, but from the first it decreases sensory acuity and
discrimination1. In the more exact research of Rivers
, made with doses varying from five to twenty cubic centimetres,
little or no effect was produced upon the work done by the hand muscles.
Several experimenters, notably Kraepelin, announced a slight shortening of the
reaction-time after alcohol.
In a very careful research, Dodge
found clear evidence that moderate doses of alcohol (30CC.) produce a
depressing effect, even on the simplest motor mechanisms such as the knee-jerk
and the eyelid refiex3. If this conclusion of Dodge had to be rejected—and I
see no reason why it should be—in favour of that of his predecessors, the most
that could be claimed for the action of ethyl alcohol upon muscle activity
would be that moderate doses produce a very slight improvement, of short
duration, in certain motor functions. That improvement, if it takes place is, according
to all observers, soon followed by a reduction in the normal activity. As to
large doses, it is unanimously agreed that from the first they decrease the
amount of muscular work done.
Regarding the action of alcohol upon
sensory acuity and discrimination, there is now complete agreement : the
experimental evidence indicates a loss. Several experimenters found that even
very moderate doses affected unfavourably accuracy in shooting. This may be
due either to decreased exactness of the accommodation and convergence reflexes
of the eye, or to unsteadiness of the arm and body or to both. Lange and
Sprecht have found that even small doses of alcohol lower the threshold of
auditory sensation, while the difference-threshold is raised. Those two effects
they found also in the case of vision.1
Upon higher mental processes (recall,
reasoning, judgment, volition), moderate doses of alcohol either have no effect
or act detrimentally. That is the conclusion reached by Kraepelin in the
pioneer work already mentioned, and that conclusion has been confirmed by the
investigators who followed him. Aschaffenburg, for instance, studying the
effect of 200 grammes of Greek wine containing 18 per cent, of alcohol (36 to
40 grams.), upon typesetters who were habitual users of the beverage, found a
marked decrease in the amount of work done on the days the wine was taken2.
It is to be noted that the dose was a relatively small one. The work of Dodge
upon the higher mental processes was not extensive enough to have much significance.
The only dose he used in an experiment on memory (30CC.) produced no observable
effects3.
Lange and Sprecht found that small
doses of alcohol lower the stimulus threshold and raise the
difference-threshold for both hearing and vision. They think that these effects
of alcohol are common to all the senses.—Ztschr. f. Pathopsych., 1915,
III, 155-256.
J. B. Jorger, in an investigation upon
the sequence of thought in inebriates, observed modifications, all of which
made for decreased mental efficiency— Monat. f. Pschiat. u. New., 1915,
XXXVII, 246-66, 323-32.
A relatively large dose of alcohol
produces, as everybody knows, muscular inco-ordination, particularly obvious in
the gait and speech ; it also plays havoc with the intellectual life. Very
large doses result in total motor inefficiency, loss of consciousness, and
even death.
* $ *
The Action of Mescal and of Hasheesh.—Mescal, known until recently to Mexican and American Indians only,
is found in the brittle little discs that form at the end of the branches of a
cactus belonging to the Melocacteae group (Anhalonium Lewinii). Careful studies
of its action have been made by Dr. Weir Mitchell4 and Havelock
Ellis5. Four hours after taking the drug, Dr. Mitchell recorded the
following observations : “ Yawning at times, sleepy, deliciously at languid
ease.’' “ At this stage of the mescal
1
J. Lange and W. Sprecht, Neue Untersuchungen uber die
Beeinfliissung dev Sinnesfunktionen durch geringe Alcoholmengen, Ztschr. f.
Patopsych., 1915, vol. Ill, pp. 155-256.
2
Psychol. Arbeiten,
1896, vol. I, pp. 608-26. See the conclusions, p. 626 ; see also Ernst Ktirz
and Emil Kraepelin, Ueber die Beeinfliissung psychischer Vorgange durch
Regelmlissigen Alkoholgenuss, Psychol. Arbeit, 1901, vol. Ill, PP- 4T7-57-
3
Loc. cit., pp.
126-33.
4
Weir Mitchell, The Effect of Anhalonium Lewinii, Brit. Med.
Jour., 1896, vol. II, pp. 1625-8.
5
Havelock Ellis, Popular Science Monthly, 1902, vol. LXI,
pp. 52'7T- intoxication,
I had a certain sense of the things about me as having a more positive
existence than usual. It is not easy to define what I mean.” He had also a “
decisive impression ” that he was more competent in mind than in his every-day
moods. “ I seemed to be sure of victoriously dealing with problems.” Testing
this, he found that he could understand a certain paper on psychology no better
than when in his normal condition. He tried other mental tasks, and did as well
as usual or less well. Much effort was required to write a few lines of poetry.
The making of complicated sums found him as usual. Ellis confirms in this, as
in all other important particulars, the observations of Dr. Mitchell. The
former writes, mescal “ leaves the intellect almost unimpaired1.”
This is, of course, to be understood as referring to moderate doses. The same
author noted that, whereas the effect of alcohol on the emotions is marked,
mescal hardly affects them ; “ even in large doses . . . there is no stage of
maudlin sentimentality2.”
Dr. Mitchell had taken mescal chiefly
for the sake of colour hallucinations. His expectations were not disappointed :
“ The display which for an enchanted two hours followed was such as I find it
hopeless to describe in language which shall convey to others the beauty and
splendour of what I saw.” Havelock Ellis speaks of the visions with the same
enthusiasm. Of their general character, he says, “ If I had to describe the
visions in one word, I should say that they were living arabesques.” But,
brilliant as these visions are, Dr. Mitchell finds them no more so than those
which may appear in some ophthalmic megrims.
Mescal, like cocaine, makes possible
without fatigue unusual muscular performances. Dr. Mitchell records, for
instance, that he went rather quickly, taking two stairs at a time and without
pause, to the fourth story of an hotel, and did not feel oppressed or short of
breath. But, if mescal decreases the sense of fatigue, it also probably
decreases the capacity for muscular work ; in any case, it disinclines to
exertion.
From the notes of one of his subjects,
Ellis quoted this interesting observation. “ The connexion between the normal
condition of my body and my intelligence had broken—my body had become, in a
measure, a stranger to my reason.” A deadening of certain classes of
sensations, particularly the touch sensations and those arising from movement
(kinaesthetic sensations), might account for this impression. It is probably,
as we shall see, in that direction that one must look to find a justification
for certain theories in which in ecstasy the “ soul ” is said to become
separated from the body.
1 Ibid. p. 65. 1 Loc.
cit.
A phenomenon, well-known to the
psychologist, the reinforcement of sensations of one kind by the stimulation of
another sense organ, is apparently present with unusual intensity. “ Casual stimulation
of the skin at once heightened the brilliance of the vision or produced an
impression of sound,” and music added beauty to light and colour. This accounts
probably for the practice of the Indians of remaining while under the influence
of mescal, in front of a glowing camp fire and of beating drums.
The after-effects of mescal are often,
perhaps usually, neither painful nor serious. For two days afterwards Dr.
Mitchell had headaches, and for one day a smart attack of gastric distress.
Ellis suffered some nausea and headache during the experiment, but the next day
he arose at the usual time, not tired and with an excellent appetite. “ The
only after-effect was a slightly hyperaesthetic vision for coloured objects
.”
No other drug approaches mescal so
nearly as hasheesh. I take from Ellis the following comparison. Both slow the
heart and both affect the respiration, exaggerate the knee-jerk, and dilate the
pupil; both produce visions. These two drugs differ, however, in a number of
particulars. Mescal has a more restricted action. It does not produce motor
exhilaration, nor loss of self-control. Hasheesh may do so. Mescal depresses
action of the muscular system, creates a tendency to tremulousness. The space
relations may be affected. “ The positive and active manifestations of mescal
are always mainly, if not entirely, on the sensory side, and the motor weakness
and sense of lassitude which is often present only throw the subject of mescal
intoxication more absolutely at the mercy of the waves of unfamiliar sensory
impetus which strike him from every side. Every sense is affected . . . the
simplest food seems to possess an added relish, . . . and to the sense of
touch, the body seems as unfamiliar as everything else has become.” “ The ' trailing
clouds of glory,’ the tendency to invest the very simplest things with an
atmosphere of beauty, a ' light that never was on sea or land,’ the new vision
of even ‘ the simplest flower that blows,’ all the special traits of
Wordsworth’s peculiar poetic vision correspond as exactly as possible to the
actual and effortless experience of the subject of mescal1.” Similar
sensory phenomena will be noted in connexion with Christian religious
experiences. We shall see in particular that a glorious freshness and brightness
of visual sensation may be observed after intense moral crises, as Christian
conversion, or after certain nervous disorders, as on recovering from a fever
Of experiments with hasheesh, Dunbar
wrote : "It seemed as if the moment that had gone with its myriad
impressions was forgotten .” A person who had taken thirty minims of hasheesh is asked to
let his pulse be felt. He stretches forth his hand, saying : “ In the interest
of science, I am willing.” But after a few seconds he pulls his hand
impatiently away and exclaims angrily, "You have been holding it half an
hour .” Ether produces a similar effect : “ Time seemed to have no
existence. I was continually taking out my watch, thinking that hours must have
passed, whereas only a few minutes had elapsed. This, I believe, was due to a
complete loss of memory for recent events
.” Amnesia accounts, in
part at least, for the freedom from the past enjoyed by the experimenter. “ I
was free,” says the same author, “ from all sense of care and worry, and
consequently felt very happy .” Partridge found that moderate doses of alcohol also caused time
to pass more slowly. This however may not be true of each emotional phase
through which the drinker usually passes
.
A hilarious mood is often a symptom in
hasheesh, as it is in alcohol intoxication. " The flood of laughter was
loosed, the deluge of mirth poured forth,” writes Robinson of the beginning of
the action of hasheesh . One of the persons with whom he was experimenting exclaimed :
" Cast aside all irrelevant hypotheses, and get to the laughing. I
proclaim the supremacy of the laugh, laughter inextinguishable, laughter
eternal, the divine laughter of the gods
.”
Ether and nitrous oxide gas also
transport the mind into a wonderful world of freedom, efficiency, and ineffable
feelings. Sir Humphrey Davy, under the influence of nitrous oxide, speaks of
his emotions as “ enthusiastic and sublime.” Frequently the conviction becomes
established that something great is happening ; at times it is some momentous
problem that seems to have received a solution. As we shall have to return to
the effects of these two last-mentioned drugs in connexion with the several
roots of the conviction of revelation, nothing more will be said in this place1.
* * *
111. Summary of the Effects of Narcotics
and Interpretation of their Religious Significance.
We are now prepared to formulate with
some precision the main effects to which narcotic drugs owe a favoured place in
the religious life of the non-civilized. These effects vary widely as to kind,
frequency, and intensity, not only according to the drug but also with the same
drug, according to the person ; and different doses of a drug may induce not
only different but antagonistic effects. These facts are, however, immaterial
here ; it is enough for us to know that these drugs produce at some stage or
other of the intoxication process, in most if not in all persons, effects
regarded as divine ; for it is these persons who have established the
sacredness of narcotic drugs.
(a) Alteration of sensation and
feeling ; illusion and hallucination. The mind does not perform its perceptual functions with improved
accuracy ; on the contrary, it exhibits an activity which is to an abnormal
degree independent of external stimuli. The type of these perturbations vary
with the drug. We have seen, for instance, that mescal induces delightful,
coloured hallucinations of a somewhat definite pattern. Hallucinations of other
types may convince the ecstatic that he sees and hears, unhampered by opaque
obstacles and distances, or that he travels bodily through space, now here, now
there, according to his good pleasure.
1 Macht and Isaacs measured the reaction time to light, sound, and
touch, and tested the ability to add and multiply after taking morphine doses
varying from to of a grain,—this last dose is an ordinary therapeutic dose.
With every dose there was a period of shortened reaction, a decrease in mean
variation, and a reduction in the number of errors. But this period became
increasingly brief with the increase of the dose ; with the largest, it was
extremely brief. This period was followed by a lowering of these functions.—A
ction of some Opium Alkaloids on the Psychology of Reaction Time,
Psychobiology, 1917, 1, I9-31-
It is obviously not because of the
very brief stimulation of sensory functions and of mental activities such as
those involved in arithmetic that men become opium fiends. One must look
elsewhere in order to understand its power of attraction.
The sensations and feelings arising
from the moving limbs and from the internal organs are also modified. Some of
these are dulled or even disappear altogether. Frequently, particularly in the
more interesting period of intoxication, the dominant result seems to be a
multiplication, intensification and qualitative alteration of these feelings.
Now these kinaesthetic and visceral
feelings, obscure though they are ordinarily, constitute nevertheless a
substantial background of the consciousness of self. Let them be changed or
removed, and the feeling of self is altered. This may give rise to remarkable
delusions. One of the subjects we have quoted felt separated from his own body.
In more ordinary instances, a sense of the unreality of the body and of the
outside world is reported or the outside world and body seem altered in
particulars difficult to formulate.
Psychiatry provides numerous and
striking instances of delusions arising on the basis of a disordered visceral
sensitivity. Patients feel that they have lost part of their body, that their
stomach is of glass, of lead, etc. Delusions such as these fit in very well
with the theory of supernatural possessions—they are often ascribed, according
to their nature, to evil or to good spirits.
The intensification and perhaps also
the qualitative alteration of certain organic feelings account for one of the
most enticing characteristics of ecstatic consciousness. It is as if usually
dormant parts of the organism had awakened ; feelings well up from unknown
depths and raise their multitudinous voices in a paeon of fife. Horizons open
up as warm and unlimited as the work-a-day world is cold and circumscribed.
We shall have occasion to illustrate
from observations on neurasthenic patients how dullness, motor inertia, may
impel one to seek relief in drugs or in illicit love. The apparent paradox of
people seeking and enjoying pain becomes intelligible when one takes into
account the passion for vivid consciousness. The selfwounding of the Dervish,
the painful ascetic practices of the Yogi, the frenetic dances and shouting of
the “ Maenads” all may yield a sense of new or of increased life. Yejo Hirn, in
his excellent work on The Origins of Art, remarks that “ in pain as in
pleasure, in suffering as in voluptuousness, we attain a heightened and
enriched sensation of life,” and he quotes this passage of a letter of Lessing
to Mendelsohn : “ We are agreed in this, my dear friend, that all passions are
either vehement cravings or vehement loathings, and also that in every
vehement craving or loathing we acquire an increased consciousness of our
reality, and that this consciousness cannot but be pleasurable.
Consequently, all our passions, even the most painful, are, as passions,
pleasurable.” Not the pain nor the wound does the martyr enjoy, but the
exaltation that comes with the quivering of the flesh. “ The suffering of
insensibility is,” as Hirn well says, " the highest form possible of
tedium.” Entrancirig relief from normal fatigue, as well as from the
insensibility of exhaustion is found at times in the early stages of drug
intoxication.
(d) Alterations of intellectual
functions and of emotional attitude. The intellectual
functions—retentiveness, recall, observation, classification, judgment,
etc.—stand, as everyone knows, in a relation of close dependence upon each
other and upon the activity of the senses. In narcotic intoxication an
impairment of these functions goes hand in hand with that of the senses.1
It is one of the main causes of the impression of self-exaltation, of power,
and of freedom.
But drugs seem to act otherwise than
as inhibitors of mental activity, some of them appear to exercise a direct
stimulating effect upon certain tendencies and emotions. Alcohol increases selfconfidence,
optimism, and courage. A man never appears or thinks himself braver than after
a bottle of wine, and never is his mouth so full of arrogant self-praise.
Opium, on the other hand, exaggerates diffidence, apprehension and fear. It
makes of its victim a shrinking and self-deprecating object. It may, however,
be maintained that the change in the emotional tone following upon the use of
alcohol is due entirely to the general reduction of the activity of higher
nervous organizations, and not to a stimulation of those parts of the nervous
system that are correlated with instinct and emotion. We must remember in this
connexion that even when motor activity is temporarily enhanced, the action of
alcohol is regarded by the most competent students as a paralysing one. Dodge,
for instance, accounts both for the initial increase in motor ability and for
the reduction of mental efficiency by a depressing action of alcohol : “
Whenever apparent excitation occurs as a result of alcohol, it is either
demonstrably or probably due to a relatively overbalancing depression of the
controlling and inhibitory processes
.”
We have seen that in the case of
alcohol, scientific measurements demonstrate a deficiency in acuity of
perception, in recall, discrimination, and, therefore, in every mental function
dependent upon these. But this fact is not realized by the intoxicated ; on the
contrary, he delights in a directly opposite conviction ; never is he so sure
of himself, and so ready to undertake the impossible. A limitation of mental
activity would suffice to account for this delusion If, in any particular
situation, I do not recall all the essentials that bear upon it ; or if I do
not discriminate correctly and analyse completely, I shall necessarily conclude
wrongly. Dreams provide abundant illustrations of this kind of defective
thinking. A dreamer will, for instance, soar over wide spaces without the use
of any machinery; or he will pass from one country to another in an impossibly
short time ; and yet he wonders not at these marvels. He does not wonder, for
mental dissociation has gone so far that it does not occur to him that the
quickest available method of displacement is far too slow to make the dream
possible. Why should the intoxicated hesitate if he is not aware of the
presence of conditions of success impossible for him to realize ? Unaware of the
difficulties or of his deficiencies, why should he doubt his ability to cope
with any task ?
The self-confidence, boastfulness, and
raw pugnacity characteristic of inebriation may also arise from a weakening of
the control usually exercized upon instinct by the higher mental life. If the
well-bred person checks manifestations of pugnacity, it is because he
recognizes objections to their instinctive expression ; i.e., other and
antagonistic tendencies are brought to bear upon pugnacity. Fear of making himself
ridiculous, because of the superficiality of his acquaintance with the topic
under discussion might make a man hesitate to speak in a meeting, although he
be urged to do so by an impulse to seek social recognition. Let the knowledge
of his deficiency fail to appear in his mind and he will behave with the
egotism characteristic of the callow youth, the untutored, and the partially
intoxicated.
Excessive motor activity is one of the
obvious characteristics of a phase of alcohol intoxication. This might be due
altogether to decreased self-control, itself the result of the inhibition of
the higher nervous centres. For, the quietness of the well-mannered person, his
moderation in gesture and in facial expression are not signs of inertness, but
the result of a self-control established under social tuition. Remove this
control and the organism will behave like a machine without a fly-wheel. When,
as in the case of hasheesh intoxication, motor activity is not increased, and
there is less inclination to physical arrogance, the higher mental functions
are found not to be so unfavourably affected as in the case of alcohol; i.e.,
self-control is not so markedly decreased. The action of hasheesh is exerted
first of all upon the external senses and the organic feelings.
To the intoxicated, the way seems
clear ; the required virtues, the knowledge, and the ability seem present. What
there is to be done can be done ; done with ease, with exuberance, with joyous
laughter or crushing scorn. Imagination is no longer restricted to rational
channels or checked by the sense of the irrelevant, the improper, or the
grotesque. Its quality, judged objectively, may not be high, but what matters
so long as the subject thinks differently and is proudly happy ? The mind seems
to have broken its earthly shackles, taken wings, and soared, unrestricted, in
a world of infinite possibility. If to be human means to be hemmed in at every
turn by physical and moral infirmity, then intoxication must in truth seem
divine1.
Here and there, a poet is said to have
found “ inspiration ” in wine, opium, or other drug. But when those of his
works that have been written with the assistance of narcotics are examined,
they turn out to be inferior in foint of intellectual and ethical
content to his other productions. It is only in the rhythmic and phonetic
expression of a peculiarly amorphous mood that they may possess distinction and
superiority. But superior word-music should probably be regarded as a
consequence of an abnormally complete surrender to the enjoyment of feeling at
the expense of purposive, rational thinking. Helmholtz is reported to have
declared that when trying to give form and being to some dimly apprehended
conception, the smallest quantity of alcohol sufficed to dispel from his mind
every idea of the creative order.
, * * *
The impression of free and unlimited
life, the great boon conferred upon man by intoxicants, owes much to the
disappearance of the social restraints. The importance of this fact is so
considerable that we must dwell upon it. Life in society, at every level
whatsoever, implies control and guidance of the individual’s instincts and
desires for the sake of the group to which he belongs. Even the lowest
societies are compelled to make war on the disruptive manifestations of
self-affirmation, of anger, of lust, etc. To this constraint, placed upon each
individual, is added also at every level of social organization, but more
especially among highly civilized peoples, the strain of continuous and
systematic work. Manual workers, business and professional men alike, remain at
work day after day, and year after year, with only brief intermissions, in the
face of vigorous natural promptings to give up and relax, to play and enjoy.
1 A condition strikingly similar is observed in certain types of
nervous disintegration. In the disease known as progressive paralysis,
entailing a gradual lessening of the mental life, there appears, parallel with
the decrease of motor control, sensory acuity, discrimination, association,
etc., a conviction of power and efficiency strangely at variance with reality.
Here delusions _ of grandeur and power are definitely correlated with a
progressive deterioration of the nervous system.
This moral restraint imposed by law
and custom, and this sustained effort of work required under conditions of
competitive existence, produce a state of tension and restlessness that cry out
for relief. The need for easing the strain of voluntary effort is everywhere in
evidence ; it is the “ call of the wild.” Savages and civilized, slaves and
masters, must at times free themselves from the great social fly-wheel that
regulates the individual’s behaviour. The moment comes to every man, though not
with equal frequency or intensity, when the sustained effort required in living
up to established standards, in conforming to social usage and moral laws,
passes endurance, and he lapses to a more easily maintained level. An escape to
the country; a dinner with song and wine ; or, perchance, a less respectable
diversion, disposes him again to take up the straight-jacket we are all wearing1.
The more stringent the control, the
greater the probability of a violent reaction. Hence the riotous festivities
following periods of moral strain. When the Faculty of Paris threatened to
abolish the Feast of Fools, they were petitioned in these terms : “ Wine casks
would burst if we failed sometimes to remove the bung and let in air. Now we
are all ill-bound casks and barrels which would let out the wine of wisdom if
by constant devotion and the fear of God we allowed it to ferment. . . . Thus
on some days we give ourselves up to sport, so that with the greater zeal we
may afterwards return to the worship of God®.” The forward swing of the
pendulum is followed by a backward swing—a temporary victory of the “ natural
man.” Thus we understand in part the well known tendency of sober ceremonies,
religious or otherwise, to pass into extravagant and indecent conduct. A burial
ceremony, a marriage feast, a birth celebration, readily drift into a carousal.
“ The religious gladness of the Semites,” writes Robertson Smith, “ tended to
assume an orgiastic character and become a sort of intoxication of the senses,
in which anxiety and sorrow were drowned for the moment. This is apparent in
the old Canaanite festivals, such as the vintage feasts at Shechem described in
Judges ix. 27, and not less in the service of the Hebrew high places, as it is
characterized by the prophets. Even at Jerusalem the worship must have been
boisterous indeed, when Lament, ii. 7, compares the shout of the
storming party of the Chaldeans in the
courts of the temple with the noise of the solemn feast. ... In evil times,
when men’s thoughts were habitually sombre, they betook themselves to the
physical excitement of religion as men now take refuge in wine. That this is
not a fancy picture is clear from Isaiah’s description of the conduct of his
contemporaries during the approach of the Assyrians to Jerusalem (Isaiah xxii.
12, 13. Compare with i. 11, seq.) when the multiplied sacrifices offered to
avert the disaster degenerated into a drunken carnival1.”
The cult of Dionysus was noteworthy
for the licence that went along with it2.
The demand for relaxation is so
uncompromising that everywhere, even among savages, some official provision is
made for it. Stated times are set apart and occasions provided when one may
with impunity ” kick over the traces.” Thus the danger threatened to the state
by outbreaks of the “ natural man ” are minimized. We of a highly cultured age
have not found it possible to dispense
1
W. R. Smith, Religion of the Semites, pp. 243-4.
2
" In Etruria,” we are told, “ the cult of Dionysus developed
rapidly and lost its original dignity to become a pretext for debauchery and a
school of open immorality. But it was at Rome that the cult of Dionysus assumed
the foulest cast. At Rome the founder of the cult soon changed its ritual and
its character. Livy says : ' All crimes, all excesses find place there . Those
who rebel against the shame and are unwilling to take part in it are sacrificed
as victims. The great religious principle consists in regarding nothing as
prohibited by morality. Men, as if inspired, prophesy, with violent gestures of
drunkenness, of fanaticism. . . The membership is very great, a whole people ;
it includes men and women of noble birth. Two years ago they decided not to
initiate any one more than twenty years old.’ A great trial followed which
included seven thousand accused and resulted in numerous capital condemnations.
This happened in 186 b.c.” Bacchanalia,
by F. Lenormant, in Dictionnaire des Antiquitis Grecques et Romaines,
vol. I, p. 590.
Numerous other illustrations of the
connexion of Satturnalia with religious celebrations will be found in Stratton,
Psychology of the Religious Life, London, 1911, pp. 97-100. See for the
customs of many tribes, otherwise more or less chaste, of meeting occasionally
for the purpose of holding indiscriminate intercourse, H. H. Bancroft, Native
Races, vol. I, pp. 565-6.
The following is from J. G. Frazer, The
Belief in Immortality, London, 1913, vol. I, pp. 427-8. In the Fiji Islands
certain solemn ceremonies were followed by a great feast, which ushered in a
period of indescribable revelry and licence. All distinction of property was
for the time being suspended. Men and women arrayed themselves in all manner of
fantastic garbs, addressed one another in the foulest language, and practised
unmentionable abominations openly in the public square of the town. The nearest
relationships, even that of brother and sister, seemed to be no bar to the
general licence, the extent of which was indicated by the expressive phrase of
an old Nandi chief, who said, ‘ While it lasts, we are just like the pigs.’
This feasting and orgy might be kept up for several days, after which the
ordinary restraint of society and the common decencies of life were observed
once more. The rights of private property were again respected ; the abandoned
revellers and debauchees settled down into staid married couples ; and brothers
and sisters, in accordance with the regular Fijian etiquette, might not
so much as speak to one another.”
entirely with these safety valves. We
continue to tolerate carnivals, mardi gras fairs, mummeries, and their
equivalents.
Among the many ways in which a moral
and intellectual vacation can be secured, few are as effective—we do not say
desirable—as the use of certain drugs. It may have, it is true, detrimental
after effects, and it may lead to disastrous habits ; but its immediate result
is a relief from the intolerable strain of organized life and a readiness to
take up again the social constraints. In this way it becomes an instrument of
stabilization.
It might seem that the mere cessation
of ordinary activities, together with sleep, should be adequate and
satisfactory restoratives. The superiority of the drug-consciousness over these
more normal ways of relief, lies in the fact that in intoxication the attention
is not only released from the daily tasks and obligations, it becomes engrossed
in pleasant and effortless activities ; and there is added the already
described delight of new and abundant life,—a delight none the less effective
for being deceptive. Mere cessation of work does not in itself quickly give the
mind all the refreshment it needs ; it leaves one, for a time at least, afflicted
by a sense of staleness and of the tormenting moral claims of society. Whereas
the strain of effort; the disappointments of unsatisfied cravings and thwarted
ambitions ; the humiliating limitations of intelligence, health, and wealth;
the doubts, scruples, and remorse—all these worrying, painful constituents of
daily existence vanish under the spell of intoxicants.
The dreams of simple men can soar no
further than the sensuous delights, the relief from painful moral efforts
imposed by society, and the impression of complete freedom and unlimited power
bestowed upon them by narcotic drugs and other physical means of ecstacy.
Therefore, they regard drug-intoxication as divine possession or union.
It is interesting to bring the
foregoing remarks in connexion with the behaviour of persons suffering from an
abnormally insufficient sense of power. These sufferers, called psychasth&niques,
by the distinguished French psychiatrist, Pierre Janet, seek energy wherever
they may hope to find it. Sometimes the new influx of lite seems to proceed
from the personality of the physician himself; the patient comes to him more or
less regularly to be “ wound up.” Sometimes the undervitalized has recourse to
drugs and sometimes to religion.
From the age of fifteen, D. has been
subject to attacks of depression. At that age his never strong will became
weaker than ever ; he ceased to be " good for anything.”
“ For a long period and until the age
of twenty-two, he endured these painful attacks with resignation ; sometimes he
remained thus prostrated for a couple of hours, at other times for several
days. He had a vague feeling that he needed some sort of excitement to set him
up again ; he ‘ would have liked to do some out-of-the-way thing ’ to force
himself out of this condition. As a matter of fact, he never did actually give
way to any foolish impulse and, on each recurrence, the state gradually wore
itself out.
" Towards the age of twenty-two,
while at a German University, he was led by his comrades into excessive drinking.
These repeated intoxications produced the remarkable result of dissipating the
attacks of depression and freeing him from the horrible feeling of being
plunged into the depths ; hence a vague idea took root in his mind that
intoxication was the sovereign remedy for his torments.
" From this time on. the
character of his attacks has changed ; when he feels cast down he is obsessed
by the idea of drink ; he struggles, hesitates, does not deliberately resolve
to drink to the point of intoxication but wishes to give himself merely a
little solace and decrease the horrible feeling of depression that he
experiences. He drinks unwillingly, alone, without pleasure, without conviction
; but he drinks, nevertheless, and soon he can no longer resist the impulse. He
spends all the money he has about him, pawns his watch, borrows in a most
absurd fashion, and winds up in a state of stupor which usually brings the
attack to an end1.”
Essentially similar in her
psycho-physiological insufficiency, however different the remedy, is Sim, a
woman thirty-one years old. She also is unable to live upon her own store of
energy. She must be vivified, " emotionalized,” as Janet says. Her
husband, an energetic fellow, full of common sense, does not satisfy her. He
does not give her any food for thought. Of him, she says, “ he does not know
anything, he does not teach me anything, he does not astonish me. I know
myself. I have exhausted my own resources. I need to be given new ideas, new
impressions, new emotions ; my husband is merely a man of ordinary common
sense, and that is deadly.” The lover upon whom she comes to rely for the
infusion of the life she lacks, is described by her as witty, vivacious,
intellectual, self-controlled, heartless, aggressive. He keeps her constantly alert
and expectant. He is the tonic she needs. At an earlier time, this woman had
passed through a period of religious exaltation during which she had found in
divine communion the stimulant later furnished by her lover.
Sim and her sort need stimulants in
order to rise above the dead level of inactivity and inefficiency, with its
accompanying intolerable ennui. “ If they find this excitement in
alcohol or in morphine, they become drunkards or morphine habitues ; if
they find it in divine love, they become delirious religious mystics ; but if
they find what they need in a human being, they become lovers. If the lover
abandons them, they suffer from mental and physical disorders similar to those
of the morphine victim when deprived of his hypodermic syringes2.”
The reader is not to suppose that we
regard these several methods of cure as complete equivalents. We would maintain
merely that they include a common kernal roughly describable as enhancement of
the life-powers, either temporary or permanent, illusory or substantial.
As we bring this chapter to a close,
let us pause a moment to recall that religion and the enhancement of life are
inseparably associated. The substance of religious life is frequently described
as communion or union with the Source of Life. Christ came that men might have
eternal life. A professor of Christian theology describes the action of God as
“ creating within the soul a new centre of activity and of force, introducing
peace, joy, freedom, love, and light3.” Digamma, probably a Fellow
in a College of Oxford University, discovered that after earnest prayer, a
state of depression from which he suffered severely was greatly relieved and at
times
1
Pierre Janet, Les Obsessions et la Psychasthinie, vol. II,
p. 424.
2
Loc. cit., pp.
402-7.
3
Henri Bois, La Valeur de I’Expdnence Religieuse, Paris,
1908.
completely vanished
. Because of this
life-enhancing experience, Digamma believed that in prayer God actually
communicated himself to man. Every religion makes similar claims ; religious
worship is essentially a method of securing more and better life.
It is because of similar effects, in
part real and in part illusory, that the intoxication ceremonies we have passed
in review are regarded by the non-civilized as uniting man to the Divine. The analysis
of the effects of narcotics has revealed the meaning they attach to that term.
In later chapters we shall find that
in some of its phases the mystical ecstatic trance brings to the Christian
worshipper also hallucinations, incomparable sensuous delights, an impression
of limitless power and freedom ; and, in other phases, of complete relaxation
and perfect peace. And the Christian mystic also thinks of these ecstatic
experiences as divine union.
As we turn to higher forms of
mysticism, our main concern will be to trace the continuity of impulses and
purposes from the ecstasies of the lower to the ecstasies of the higher
religions, to note the appearance of new motives and new methods, and to record
the results of these new efforts towards the establishment of relations with a
transcendant Source of Life.
THE YOGA SYSTEM OF MENTAL
CONCENTRATION AND RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM
Nowhere perhaps does mysticism fill so large a place as in India.
Nevertheless, since we are not writing a history of mysticism, we may content
ourselves with the consideration of the most influential of the Yoga1
systems, that of Patanjali, accessible in the English language since 1914.
To the historians of metaphysics this
text is of great importance inasmuch as it forms, in the words of the
translator, “ a bridge between the philosophies of ancient India and the fully
developed Indian Buddhism and the religious thought of to-day in Eastern Asia.”
Psychologists also will find much to interest them in this book besides that
which it is our special task to bring out, for its conceptions of the mind and
its workings are surprisingly different from those of the Western world.
India’s thinking has gone in different directions and dug different ruts from
those in which the western mind has imbedded itself. ^Interesting instances of
first attempts at psychological analyses and classifications may be found on
pages 8, 31, 34, 60, 235, and 327.
The philosophical foundation of this
Yoga is the Vedanta metaphysics. Its main articles may be briefly formulated in
three propositions :
1.
Individuals possess merely illusory existence. There is really no
distinction between Brahman and souls or selves. The self is Brahman. Is is
false perception, false knowledge, that leads to the opposition of selves to
Brahman or ultimate reality.
2.
The supreme aim of man is emancipation from individual existence;
i.e., absorption into Brahman.
3.
This absorption is achieved when the illusion of the soul’s
separate existence vanishes—-when the identity of the individual self with the
universal self is realized. Thus, emancipation from rebirth does not come by
good works but by understanding : “ from knowledge comes emancipation.” That
knowledge consists in the immediate perception of the identity of the soul
with Brahman.
This Vedanta doctrine is too abstruse
and stands in too obvious antagonism with one of the most tenacious instinctive
tendencies of human nature (selfpreservation and enhancement) to recommend
itself to the average person. The illusoriness of individual existence, the
identity of the self with Brahman, the absorption in the All as the goal of
man, are too remote from the conceptions and desires of the average man to
become part of his common-sense philosophy Are, then, the rank and file shut
off from the religion of Brahman ? Not at all. In India as elsewhere religious
philosophy comes down to those who cannot ascend to it. Alongside of the
esoteric doctrine sketched above, there grew up in India a popular Brahman in
the form of a personal God occupying a position quite similar to that of God in
the mind of the Christian worshipper. This Brahman saves from rebirth and
vouchsaves to his faithful worshipper an indescribable blessedness. Strictly
taken, this popular religion involves the negation of the fundamental
propositions of the Vedanta. But this is conveniently concealed by the use of
the same terms in both forms of the Brahmanic religion. (For a fuller account,
see the excellent Outline of the Vedanta System by Paul Deussen, New
York, 1906.)
It may be remarked in this connexion
that a similar double conception of God exists in present Christianity. On the
one hand, the familiar faith of the many regard him as a personal, benevolent
Providence without whose will not even a sparrow falls to the ground. On the
other, a lofty doctrine of God, entertained by the philosophically trained,
makes of him an impassible Absolute. The latter doctrine is in radical
disagreement with the phraseology of the Christian books of worship.
Our purpose remains, as heretofore,
the description of mystical beliefs and practices and the discovery of their
motives, intended goal, and actual results. Yoga appears as a connecting link
between the religious intoxication of the savage and'the mysticism of the
higher religions.
The Yoga of Patanjali consists of 195
rules written between 650 and 850 A.D. Without comments they could be printed
in the space of a dozen pages. They are, however, far from clear to the
European reader, and presumably little more so to the Hindoo, for they are
accompanied by the Yoga-Bhasya, a commentary much longer than the text, and by
still more extensive explanations due to Vacaspatimicra. The treatise is
divided into four books : Concentration, Means of Attainment, Supernormal
Powers, and Isolation. The first two treat in the main of the means or methods
of attaining the perfect state, and the last two describe chiefly that which is
to be attained. But one should not look for a strict logical arrangement of
parts.
To characterize Yoga as a system of
philosophy or of ethics would be misleading. Its more direct analogy is with
our manuals of religion, for its central purpose, like that of our own
books of worship, is to teach the way to salvation. But its practical directions
are imbedded in more or less fanciful psychology and unnecessary metaphysics.
The main propositions.—Life is evil and death is merely the beginning of another painful
existence,—such is the double proposition upon which Yoga and, of course, Buddhistic
philosophy in general, is grounded. The goal is escape from the round of
rebirths.
So far nothing could be clearer. When
we pass to the means of deliverance from this inacceptable situation, the text
becomes more difficult. We must first note carefully the distinction Yoga,
makes between the “ Self ” and the “ mind-substance ” or “ thinkingsubstance,”
and the respective functions it ascribes to them. The whole scheme of
deliverance is dependent upon that distinction.
The Self is “ the..power of seeing,”
and the mind-substance is ” the, power by means of which one„sees ” (ii.
6, 20). It would probably agree better with our ways of speaking to describe
the first as a “ power ” and the second as an “ instrument.” Without this
mind-substance the Self would be “ isolated ” ; i.e., it would not be conscious
of the world, for it is through the activity of the thinking-substance that the
Self becomes aware of objects, acquires knowledge (i. 2 ; ii. 6, 20 ; ii. 17),
and thus enters into relation with the world. This entering into relation with
the world by means of the thinking-substance generates desires and passions and
with them the sense of personality. Rebirth is a consequence of desire and
passion. Deliverance can therefore be attained by disconnects ing the
Self from the mind-substance: “ Isolate ” the Self, make it “ not conscious of
any object ” (i. 20), passionless and purposeless, and personality will have
dwindled away—thus speaks Yoga.
In certain parts of the book the mere
realization of the difference that exists between the Self and the
mind-substance and of the role played by the latter, is said to be enough to
bring about the deliverance of the Self. We read for instance that the fateful
error of man is the confusion “ of the power of perceiving ” with “ the power
by which one perceives ” (ii. 6). It is this confusion which gives rise to the
sense of personality and, with it, to all human misery. Deliverance is
therefore said to be obtained when one has become conscious of the distinction
between Self and thinking-substance ; then the Self has “ passed out of
relation with the aspects or attributes of things ; and, enlightened by himself
and nothing more, is stainless and isolated” (ii. 27). But this theory is
contradicted by Yoga itself since it places the main emphasis upon other means
of achieving the liberation of the Self.
The task before the Yogin is, then,
the suppression of the activity of the mind, the “ fluctuations of the
mind-stuff are to be restricted.” The classification of these fluctuations or
activities offers one of the many instances of the naivete of Hindoo
psychology. Five kinds of fluctuations are enumerated : source-of-valid ideas, i.e.,
perceptions and verbal communicationsmisconceptions ; predicate relations ;
sleep ’^memory (i. 2, 5-11). We need not try to puzzle out this analysis of the
mind’s activities. That which matters most is fortunately clear enough : the
mind-stuff is to become quiescent, it is to be permanently in the “ restricted
state ”
“ Concentration ” is the name of the
condition of him who has entered upon the way to deliverance. In its lower
degree it assumes the form either of deliberation or of reflection upon any
object of thought (i. 17-18). At first the mind remains conscious of objects ;
but in the higher stages of concentration, it loses that consciousness ;
objects merge, and there remains only “ subliminal impressions ” (i. 17, 18).
Finally the Yogin “ ceases to be conscious of any object.”
V Hindrances to concentration ; how
to overcome them.—There are many hindrances to concentration. Yoga divides
them in two groups. The reason for the separation in two groups is as obscure
as the reason for the composition of each group. In the first, we find “
sickness, languor, doubt, heedlessness, worldliness, erroneous perception,
failure to attain any stage of concentration, and instability in the state when
attained ” (i. 30). In the second group are put together undifferentiated
consciousness (mistaking the impermanent, impure, etc., for the pure, permanent,
etc.), the feeling of personality, passion, aversion, and the will-to-live (ii.
3).
In order to overcome these hindrances
and attain his goal, the Yogin needs every available help, The sutras indicate
eight methods and devices (ii. 29-55 ; iii. 1-3). Five are called indirect
(abstentions, observances, postures, regulations-of-the-breath, and withdrawal-
of-the-senses), and three are called direct aids (fixed attention,
contemplation, and concentration).
Some of these aids indicate a concern
for ethical perfection—the “ abstensions,” for instance, which are defined as “
abstinence from injury and from falsehood and from theft and from incontinence
and from acceptance of gifts.” Abstinence from injury in which “ all the other
abstentions and observances are rooted,” is to be understood as “ abstinence
from malice towards all hying creatures in every way and at all times ” (ii.
30). This is good-will expressed negatively. The “ observances ” also are in
part of a genuine ethical character. Cleanliness is defined both as external,
and then produced “ by earth or water or the like ; and as inner cleanliness of
the mind-stuff ” (i. 32). The Yogin is enjoined furthermore “ to
cultivate friendliness towards ah living beings that have reached the
experience of happiness ; compassion towards those in pain ; joy towards those
whose character is meritorious.” The mind-stuff of him who conforms to these
prescriptions “ becomes calm; and when calm it becomes single-in-intent and
reaches the stable state ” (i. 33). An ethical purpose and practice is,
nevertheless, not logically demanded by the goal of Yoga ; for, honesty,
friendliness, etc., are irrelevant to one who seeks utter detachment and
isolation. Cultivating friendliness and rejoicing with those who rejoice are
demands hardly in agreement with a desire for the suppression of personality.
This is one of the incongruities that betray the confusion of thought from
which this system suffers.
The most striking of the physical aids
to concentration are the “ postures.” A sutra on postures enumerates them thus,
“ the lotus-posture and the hero-posture and the decent-posture and the
mystic-diagram and the staff-posture and the posture with the rest and the
bedstead, the seated curlew and the seated elephant and the seated camel, the
even arrangement, the stable-and-easy and others of the same kind ” (ii. 46)
. These postures are to be
accompanied “ by relaxation of effort or by a mental state-of-balance with
reference to Ananta ” (ii. 47). In this connexion we may remark that relaxation
of effort as well as “ concentration ” of attention play a capital role in the
production of various automatisms and of trance states. Relaxation is demanded
of the subject in psychoanalysis ; and, in the Christian religion, it is when
the sinner despairs of reforming himself by his own endeavours and surrenders
to the will of God that salvation comes. In the production of hypnosis one or
the other of these expressions, or both, are used to describe the attitude to
be assumed by the subject. When discussing the ecstatic trance of the Christian
mystics we shall have occasion to come back to this significant fact.
The physical helps to concentration
include mortifications, fasts and other ascetic practises, but the one most
insisted upon after the postures is perhaps the control of the breath. It is
secured together with the attainment of “ stable ” postures (ii. 49). There are
no less than four kinds of breath control: “ it is external in case there is no
flow of breath after expiration ; it is internal in case there is no flow of
breath after inspiration ; it is the third or suppressed in case there is no
flow of either kind ” (ii. 50). The pueril subtleties into which sutras and
commentaries enter in this connexion cannot interest us. We need note merely
that the fourth and perfect control of the breath involves the total
suppression of the passage of air to and from the lungs. Since death would
speedily supervene should this be realized, we must suppose that the Yogin is
deceived into the belief that breathing is totally suspended. That he suffers
many illusions and hallucinations there cannot be any doubt. But why this
unnatural behaviour ? Because, in restraint of breath, “ the central organ ”
becomes fit for fixed attention, and complete mastery of the organs is attained
(ii. 53, 55) ; i.e., the sense organs are “ restricted ” their activity
ceases, and that, as we know, is a step towards disinterestedness and
passionlessness.
“Restriction” of the organs of sense
is secured', in drugmysticism by the action of the drug. In Christian
mysticism, absorption in the adorable personality of God or Christ or of one of
the saints, is a recognized method of ascending the “ ladder ” that leads to
ecstasy. A corresponding practice is found in the Yoga system ; it is the “
devotion of the Iqvara ” (i. 23).
That being is not easy to describe. He is a “ special kind of Self,” never in
the bondage of time, space, and matter, “at all times whatsoever liberated ”
(i. 24) ; in him “ the germ of the omniscient is at its utmost excellence ” (i.
25) ; he is the Teacher of the Primal Sages (i. 26). This exalted Being is
represented by the mystic syllable which, when reflected upon and many times
repeated brings the mind-stuff to rest in the One Exalted (i. 28)
.
The use of drugs is not recommended in
the Yoga of Patanjali ; it is, however, mentioned and acknowledged as available
and legitimate. Book IV opens with this sutra, “ Perfections proceed from birth
or from drugs or from spells or from self-castigation or from concentration ”
(iv. 1). The commentary says that “ agelessness and deathlessness and the
other perfections ” may be had by the use of an elixir-of-life. This
recognition of similarity between the condition secured by the Yoga-practices
and that produced by drugs is too significant to be overlooked by the student
of mystical ecstasy.
Results.—The ultimate end is, as we already know, the separation of
the Self from every object of sense or thought, the suppression of all desire
and passion, and the consequent elimination of personality. But just as
Christian worship offers secondary attractions of an aesthetic, social, or even
grossly utilitarian nature ; so among the Hindoo, the desire to pursue the goal
is greatly assisted by many real or imaginary advantages that accrue to the
faithful Yogin. Each practice has its reward. Postures render the Yogin
unassailable ‘ ‘ by cold and heat and other extremes ' ’ (ii. 48).
Self-castigation brings perfection of the body, such as hearing and seeing at a
distance ” (ii. 43). As a result of concentration upon muscular powers, there
arises strength like that of the elephant; as the result of concentration upon
the sun, there arises an intuitive knowledge of the cosmic spaces.
Conegritration upon the “ wheel of the navel ” brings “ intuitive knowledge of
the arrangement of the body ” (iii. 29) ; upon the “ well of the throat,” ”
cessation of hunger and thirst ” ; etc., etc. It would be futile to attempt a
full enumeration of the marvellous powers promised to the faithful Yogin, and
still more to try to fathom the reason for the connexion affirmed between each
practice and its alleged result. If the connexion is, at times, natural or
logical, it is more frequently obviously fanciful in the extreme.
One of the most alluring of the
imaginary claims of Yoga is the possession of “ all truth,” When the Yogin has
” ceased to be conscious of any object,” he is said nevertheless to have gained
the insight by which things are perceived “ as they really are ” (i. 20). This
omniscience is, of course, not acquired by the ordinary way of protracted and
systematic intellectual effort. It comes to him in the measure in which he
discards critical reason and surrenders to the “ unconscious ” : it is when the
Yogin has gained “ the vision by the flash of insight which does not pass
successively through the serial order of the usual process of experience ”
(i. 47), that he possesses the “ truth-bearing ” insight (i. 48). That insight
reveals “ all that he (the Yogin) desires to know in other places and in other
bodies and in other times. Thereafter his insight sees into things as they are
” (ii. 45. Compare iii. 54).
This is obviously nonsense. The Yogin
cannot substantiate his claim to a knowledge of the thoughts of other persons,
of the time of his death, or of his present and future incarnations ;
concentration upon the moon does not give him an intuitive knowledge of the
arrangement of the stars ” (iii. 27). A careful reading of Yoga discloses,
however, that magical omniscience and omnipotence are not taken too seriously.
After all, the Yogin keeps his eyes first of all on deliverance from pain.
Consider for instance this elucidation of the nature of “ insight ” : “ And in
this sense it has been said, ' as the man who has climbed the crag sees those
upon the plain below, so the man of insight who has risen to the undisturbed
calm of insight, himself escaped from pain, beholds all creatures in their
pain.’ ” (i. 47). Here the function of “ insight ” is deliverance from pain.
That, in truth, is the gross purpose of Yoga.
The omniscience and omnipotence
claimed for the Yogin should be placed in parallel with the similar claims made
by the users of drugs in religious ceremonies. In both instances the claim is
an expression of yearning for unlimited physical and intellectual powers and of
an illusory realization of those yearnings. In the one case it is due chiefly
to persistent fixation_of the attention, and, in the other, mainly to
the action of a drug.
If omniscience and omnipotence are,
with the Yogin as with the drug-intoxicated, illusory, real advantages are
nevertheless secured by both. During the early stages of the emptying process
the Yogin enjoys an impression of unlimited power and the delights of an
imagination freed from the control of critical reason. Physical pain is allayed
or altogether removed. Moral pain also vanishes, the dread of sickness and age,
the wearisome struggle to keep up with the demands of society and of one’s
ideal; the wickedness of duplicity, pride, and hatred, disappear when the mind
has become concentrated upon an “ objectless content.” Sensuous raptures,
conspicuous in drug ecstasy, seem also in some measure at least to add their
delights to the Yogin’s experience. They are probably mainly responsible for
utterances like this, “ What constitutes the pleasure of love in this world and
what the supreme pleasure of heaven are both not to be compared with the
sixteenth part of the pleasure of dwindled craving (ii. 42.) In a similar way
do Christian mystics speak about the unutterable delight of “ union with God.”
But does not this contradict the
Yogin’s conception of the final state ? Is unconsciousness, consonant with
enjoyment ? Obviously not; it is merely consonant with painlessness. This
contradiction in the idea of Nirvana runs through all or most Hindoo religious
literature. Its existence is not difficult to account for : the delights found
on the way to unconsciousness, are mistakenly ascribed to that final state.
Similarly, the sufferer who contemplates ultimate deliverance from pain, can
hardly refrain from speaking of that condition as one of bliss, although, in
fact, it is no more than absence of suffering.
The illogical craving for moral
perfection manifested in Yoga.— Attention
has already been drawn to the very specific directions by
which the Yoga of Patanjali encourages
the practice of social virtues. Yet the removal of all ethical considerations
would leave its essential structure unaffected ; for, after all, ethical
considerations have no logical place in a system that aims at the breaking of
all bonds connecting the individual to the physical and social world. If Yoga
sets down principles and prescribes rules of intercourse with one’s fellows
that are not much inferior to the best in Christianity, it is probably because
those who elaborated this scheme of deliverance were after all keenly conscious
not only of the presence of the evils of existence and of a general desire to
escape these evils but also of an ideal of social perfection, the worth of
which they tacitly acknowledged.
In the western world, dissatisfaction
with this life, because of physical and moral evils, did not lead to a
condemnation of personal existence. It resulted instead in a belief in an
eternal life in an ideal social order beyond the grave.
Is the Hindoo so different from the
rest of mankind as to seek that which others abhor ? There is no sufficient
reason to think so. He, no more than the westerner, gives up the struggle for
selfrealization. To neither is the mere cessation of effort and extinction a
really satisfactory solution of the problem of destiny. The Hindoo also seeks a
victorious end. There must be no ignoble surrender ; evil has to be overcome
before he will consent to enter eternal rest. Is not rebirth a scheme to
secure by gradual purification ultimate triumph over evil and the realization
of individual perfection ? How senseless would be the prolonged torture of
rebirth were it not regarded as an instrument of self-realization !
In this, then, Christianity and
Buddhism substantially agree : both seek a self-realization that involves moral
perfection. But beyond this a bifurcation takes place. The Hindoo considers
that victory over his imperfections entitles him to an honorable dismissal
from' conscience*'' existence, while the western mind regards the attainment of
perfection as a warrant for a blessed and endless consciousness of self.
It is easy to speculate as to the
source of this divergence. A difference in the strength pH certain primary
instincts, as that of pugnacity, may account for it. But here again the Hindoo
does not really stand so far apart from the western world as it seems. Nirvana
is described both as a state of unconsciousness and of incomparable bliss. The
practical significance of this contradiction is clear : the Yogin need not, and
the average Yogin probably dues not seek utter annihilation. That which he
anticipates is really cessation of suffering and eternal, lethal enjoyment. Is
there a very important difference between this expectation and that of the
Christian who seeks the joys of heaven ? Probably not. Let it be remembered in
this connexion that the idea of the future life, as it is found among educated
Christians, is so vague that nothing specific can be added to the descriptive
expression “ eternal blessedness.”
The effectiveness of the Yoga
methods.—The general consideration
of the effectiveness of the methods of religious mysticism had better be
postponed until after the study of its other forms. We may say here, however,
that the final earthly condition of the faithful, uncompromising Yogin, as he
appears to the unsophisticated observer, does not seem worthy of man’s holiest
endeavours. The emaciated, bewildered ascetic, reduced to the dimmest spark of
life, equally incapable, for lack of energy, of committing good or evil, is not
a demi-god but a shrunken caricature of what man ought to be—so at least does
common sense pronounce. The Yogin, as also the user of drugs, may win partial
or total unconsciousness and, with it, isolation and peace ; so much must be
granted. But that this peace and isolation have the exalted significance
attributed to them in the Yoga metaphysics, is quite another matter. We know in
any case that he is much deceived in the magical powers he ascribes to himself.
His self-deception, the corresponding self-deception of the user of drugs, and,
as we shall see, of the classical Christian mystics, constitute one of the most
pathetic chapters of human history. To aim so high and to fall so low is in
truth both deep tragedy and high comedy. Yet the stupefied Yogin is one of the
blundering heroes and martyrs that mark the slow progress of humanity.
We must not fail to remember, however,
that those who make the final descent into unconsciousness are fortunately only
a small fraction of the followers of Yoga. Most of them never reach that stage.
Similarly the final round of the ladder of the Christian mystic is reached only
by a few, while millions practise without realizing it, and much to the
increase of their peace of mind and moral energy, the initial steps of
meditation and contemplation.
Features common to Yoga and to the
religious intoxication of the savage.—What features common to Yoga and to the religious intoxication of
the savage justify their classification together under the name mysticism ?
First of all, the avowed purpose in both is to transcend the limitations of the
individual self and to achieve some sort of connexion with the Divine.
This common purpose corresponds to an
essential similarity of that which actually takes place under the action of
drugs and of Yoga discipline. Both achieve a reduction of mental activity that
dissociates the individual from the world, and thus liberates him from the
pain, distress and effort incident to ordinary life. Thus, a temporary, if not
a final deliverance from physical and moral evil is secured. In both methods
the reduction of mental activity may culminate in complete unconsciousness.
An impression of quickened life and of
marvellous, unlimited powers, is also common to both. It is true that in order
to reach the goal set by Yoga (isolation of the self from the world and
absorption in the All), it is not necesssary to secure these powers. The
acquisition of magical or divine powers in order to control nature is obviously
an alien, and, probably, an older element. If it has remained in Yoga, it is
because of the strong appeal it makes to human nature.
Belief in the acquisition of divine or
magical knowledge is the last common trait we shall mention. The idea of “
unutterable ” revelation that fills so large a place in Christian mysticism, is
present both in Yoga and in the lower mysticism. But it should be recognized
that in these three forms of religious mysticism the emphasis is placed not
upon knowledge as such but upon knowledge regarded as an instrument for the
suppression or the enlargement of the self. This fact is often ignored by the
philosopher of mysticism.
CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM
Historical and General Remarks
The successive forms of religious mysticism may be regarded as
expressions of a gigantic experiential movement aiming at securing in diverse
ways an ever fuller satisfaction of fundamental wants. Certain wants and
methods conspicuous in the lower forms of mysticism disappear or are reduced to
secondary position in the higher; other needs and other methods take their
place. The passage from one form of mysticism to another is marked, furthermore,
by changes in the conception of the power which is regarded as the cause of the
experience.
* * *
Christian mysticism attained full
maturity between the sixteenth and the seventeenth century with St John of the
Cross, Santa Theresa, Molinos, Mme. Guyon and others. Contemporary Christian
mysticism is best represented by the disciples of Fox, known as the Friends or
Quakers.
The first formulation of a mystical
philosophy and of a system of mystical practice is probably to be found in the
sacred books of India. But these have had their own cruder antecedents, such as
those considered in the chapter on mystical drug-ecstasy.
What relations have really existed
between these antecedents and Christian mysticism, whether the torch passed
from hand to hand, continuously from the savage to the Yogin, thence to Greece
and to the Christian world; or whether it was extinguished and rekindled, thus
making one or several new starting points, is a very interesting question which
it is not our intention to consider. We shall merely remark that, so far as
practical Christian mysticism is concerned, there seem to have been present in
the Christian attitude towards God and Christ, quite independently of the
theories of the pseudo-Areopagite and of those who stood back of him, the
elements necessary to its production. If it seems probable that Christian
mysticism owes something of its philosophy to India through the intermediary of
Greece and the neo-platonists, its practices may well be altogether original
with Christianity. Theory and practice need not have had a common origin.
How far the Greek Mysteries may be
regarded as mystical in the sense in which we take that term, is an open
question. Rhode expresses the extreme negative position when he declares that “
in das Land der Mystik wiesen die Mysterien nicht den Weg\” Others have
emphasized the significance of an alleged sacramental meal in which the
worshipper, by eating or drinking a divine substance, became of one flesh and
blood with the deity. If such a communion as this was really a part of the
Eleusinian mysteries, then they certainly included the fundamental mystical
purpose. But Farnell and others do not find sufficient evidence of the presence
of a communion meal. Nevertheless, Farnell, as well as Foucart, sees in the
mysteries aspirations and methods of worship calculated to induce “ at least
the feeling of intimacy and friendship with the divinity
.” In Cretan mythology, Farnell finds “ glimpses of a communion
service in which the mortal was absorbed into the divine nature by the
simulated fiction of a holy marriage ; a mystery much enacted by the late
Cybele-ritual, which we may believe descended collaterally from a Minoan source
.” Jane Harrison holds
that the cardinal doctrine of Orphic religion was “ the possibility of
attaining divine life .” Immortality was a corollary of that belief.
In any case, whatever may be regarded
as mystical in their mysteries, the Greeks placed the emphasis upon a
transformation such as would make the worshipper immortal, whereas the
Christian mystic sought not primarily immortality but union with God—a union
which brings with it immortality, together with everything else that is
desirable.
The worship of the Olympian divinities
was not at all mystical. The orthodox anthropomorphic religion of Greece “
never stated in doctrine, never implied in ritual, that man could become God.
Nay more, against any such aspiration it raised again and again a passionate
protest1.” Taken all in all, it is evident that mysticism played an
inconspicuous role in the religious life of the Hellenes. The Greek genius
loved clearness and self-possession too well to seek the divine in mystical
darkness and self-surrender.
In any attempt to trace, however
sketchily, the historical connexions of Christian mysticism, the ancient
Persian mysticism and its more recent Mohammedan form, so understandingly
described by Nicholson3, should be at least mentioned. With regard
to the means of realizing the absorption of the self into the All, Sufism
places more reliance than Yoga upon the drug method (wine intoxication) and
upon violent rhythmic movements ; this is true at least of the more popular
form of Persian mysticism.
The earliest powerful mystical
influence within Christianity, after that of Christ himself, is found in the
Pauline and the Johannine writings. The mystical character of St Paul’s
religious experience and teaching is not always sufficiently recognized. His
Christian career began with a sudden conversion attended by visions and
auditions. He was taken up into the “ third heaven,” and heard “ unspeakable
words which it is not lawful for man to utter3 ” ; and he spoke
frequently with tongues (glossolalia). The Christian life was for him the life
of Christ in man. Surely these experiences are of a mystical nature4.
After the apostolic writings, the most
influential events in the history of Christian mysticism were probably the
prophetic movement initiated by Montanus (about A.D. 156), and the publication
of the Mystical Theology of Dionysius the Areopagite (about A.D. 460).
Montanus and his followers spoke while in ecstasy, thus distinguishing
themselves from the orthodox Christian prophets who communicated their message
when they had returned to their senses. The ecstasy of Montanus is said to have
been deliberately induced, but we do not know in what way. He regarded himself
as a passive instrument, a lyre upon which played the divine plectrum. The
prophecies were usually delivered in great excitement and often in an unknown
" tongue.”
Two features of this movement are of
interest to us : the idea of a God communicating himself through the passive
instrumentality of the prophet who became the mouth-piece of the Divinity; and
1 Ibid., p. 477.
3
Reynold A. Nicholson, The Mystics of Islam, London, G. Bell
& Sons, 1914.
4
2 Cor., xii., 1-4.
5
The mystical character of Paul’s teaching appears in expressions
such as these: " He that is joined unto the Lord is one Spirit with Him.”
(1 Cor. vi. 17); “ You are the body of Christ ” (1 Cor. xii., 27).
the presence of ecstasy,-, that is, of
an extraordinary rapturous condition involving obscuration or total
disappearance of selfconsciousness. It hardly need be added that there was
nothing essentially new in these two features of Mpntanism. But as they
occurred here within the Christian Church and with striking intensity, their
influence upon the Church was very considerable.
Whoever the author of the Mystical
Theology may have been, it is generally agreed that the treatise was
written not earlier than the year 460, and that the Christian doctrine of
mysticism is traceable Jtp.it. It should be observed that this contribution of
Greek thought to mysticism is mainly theoretical. Sharpe, a translator of that
treatise, characterizes it as “ a kind of grammar of mysticism in which
principles alone are formulated, disengaged from the experience and
argumentation through which they have evolved
.”
The substance of the treatise is
contained in the following paragraphs :—
“ They who are free and untrammelled
by all that is seen and all that sees enter into the true mystical darkness of
ignorance, whence all perception of understanding is excluded, and abide in
that which is intangible and invisible, being wholly absorbed in Him who is
beyond all things, and belong no more to any, neither to themselves nor to
another, but are united in their higher part to Him who is wholly
unintelligible, and whom by understanding nothing, they understand after a
manner above all intelligence.”
" He is neither one nor unity,
nor divinity, nor goodness ; nor is He spirit, as we understand spirit; He is
neither sonship nor fatherhood nor anything else known to us or to any other
being, either of the things that are or the things that are not; nor does
anything that is, know Him as He is, nor does He know anything that is as it
is. He has neither word nor name nor knowledge ; He is neither darkness nor
light nor truth nor error; He can neither be affirmed nor denied; nay, though
we may affirm or deny the things that are beneath Him, we can neither affirm
nor deny Him ; for the perfect and sole cause of all is above all affirmation,
and that which transcends all is above all affirmation, absolutely separate,
and beyond all that is2.”
The Neo-Platonic influence under which
the Mystical Theology was written, is revealed best of all, perhaps, in
a classical passage of Plotinus, part of which we transcribe : “ Now often I am
roused from the body to my true self, and emerge from all else and enter
myself, and behold a marvellous beauty, and am particularly persuaded at the
time that I belong to a better sphere, and live a supremely good life, and
become identical with the godhead, and fast fixed therein attain its divine
activity, having reached a plane above the whole intelligible realm ; and then
... I descend to the plane of discursive thought. And after I have descended I
am at a loss to know how it is that I have done so, and how my soul has entered
into my body, in view of the fact that she really is as her inmost nature was
revealed, and yet is in the body1.” To what extent the Neo-Platonic
philosophy originated among Hellenes, we do not know ; but analogies between
the theology of the Areopagite and Hindoo metaphysics are extensive and
profound.
The Neo-Platonists doctrine of the
nature of God and man was in part derived from ecstatic experiences, nowhere in
their writings described with sufficient objectivity. This doctrine,
transmitted mainly through the pseudo-Dionysius, exerted upon Christian
theology down to the modern period an influence usually regarded as
overmastering2. In this ancient speculative doctrine, we have but a
secondary interest. The first object of this book is the mystical experience
itself—an experience which, in Christian practice, is substantially independent
of Neo-Platonic teaching. We have just seen that long before the influence of
Neo-Platonism could have been felt, ecstatic raptures, mystically interpreted, i.e.
regarded as union with the divine, existed in Christianity. St Paul and the
Montanists were familiar with them and they continued to appear throughout the
centuries in virtue of tendencies and of beliefs proper to Christianity. They
are the outcome of strivings not chiefly to understand, but rather to enjoy the
blessings of the best and fullest life conceivable : the divine life. The
completion of our analytical work should place us in a position to pass
judgment upon the theories
1
Enneads, Fourth
and Sixth Books, as quoted in Professor Bakewell’s Source Book in Ancient
Philosophy, p. 386. See also pp. 389-92.
2
A. Harnack, History of Dogma, vol. I. p. 361. “ As the
writings of this pseudo-Dionysius were regarded as those of Dionysius, the
disciple of the Apostle, the scholastic mysticism which they taught was
regarded as apostolic, almost as a divine science. The importance which these
writings obtained first in the East, then from the ninth to the twelfth century
also in the West, cannot be too highly estimated. It is impossible to explain
them here. This much only may be said, that the mystical and pietistic devotion
of to-day, even in the Protestant Church, draws its nourishment from writings
whose connexion with those of the pseudo-Areopagite can still be traced through
its various intermediate stages.”
derived by the ancients and by the
Christian theologians from mystical experiences.
* * *
An adequate history of the development
of Christian mystical worship from its early beginning to its culmination in
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, has not yet been written. That task is
not ours ; we shall merely jot down a few notes on some of the most salient
features of that history. Grand mysticism may be said to have begun in
Christianity with the raptures of St Paul and the writings oT~the Joharinine
Gospel1. Montan us and his followers would provide material for an
interesting chapter. About St Augustine little could be said that would
contribute anything definite to that history. In one of his last recorded
conversations with his mother, he seems to have indulged in the dream of a
mystical experience such as has actually come to others : “If the tumult of the
flesh were hushed, hushed the images of earth and waters and air, yea the very
soul be hushed to herself, hushed all dreams and imaginary revelations, every
tongue and every sign ; and He alone speak, not through any tongue of flesh nor
angel’s voice, that we may hear His very Self without these ;—were not this
Enter into thy Master’s joy ? ”
Hugo of St Victor (1097-1141),
sometimes called the “ real founder of medieval mysticism,” describes the
ascent of the soul to God in three stages, Cogitatio, Meditatio,
Contemplatio ; and this is, so far as we know, the earliest attempt at a
systematization of the mystical progress of the soul.
By Bernard of Clairvaux (1091-1153),
religion at its best is conceived as a love union. His mysticism appears in
lurid colours in the famous interpretation of the Canticles where terms of
earthly passion are used without restraint to depict the relation of the human
soul to God.
Although St Francis of Assisi
(1182-1226) has left no formal description of mystical states, we know that he
spent long periods in prayer during which he seemed as in a trance. Not long
before his death he withdrew for quiet and contemplation on a mountain, the
Verna, in the upper valley of the Arno, as he had already done many a time. Now
he desired to prepare himself for death, and he begged his companions to
protect him from all intrusion. “His days went by divided between exercises of
piety in the humble sanctuary on the mountain top and meditation in the depth
of the forest. It even happened to him to forget the services and to remain
several days alone in some cave of the rock, going over in his heart the
memories of Golgotha.” As the day of the Elevation of the Holy Cross drew near,
Francis “ doubled his fastings and prayers, ‘ quite transformed into Jesus by
love and compassion,’ says one of the legends. He passed the night before the
festival alone in prayer, not far from the hermitage. In the morning he had a
vision . . . When the vision disappeared, he felt sharp sufferings mingling
with the ecstasy of the first moments. Stirred to the very depths of his being,
he was anxiously seeking the meaning of it all, when he perceived upon his body
the stigmata of the Crucified1.” Thus does Paul Sabatier relate the
famous incident of the stigmata.
In the situation
described above, the essential conditions, psychological and physiological, for
the production of a love-trance with accompaniment of visions, etc., seem all
present. An eager/ sensitive soul, athirst for intimate companionship with the
God of Love, weakened by fasting and in the habit of remaining long in silent
contemplation before his Lord, might be expected, even without any other
tradition back of him than that derived from the New Testament, to fall into
ecstatic trances. .
With Catherine of Genoa (1347-80) and
St John of the Cross (1542-91) we are far advanced on the high road of the
great classical tradition, which came to full fruition in Santa Theresa
(1515-82), Molinos (died 1697), and Mme Guyon (1648-1717). After these, one
meets only with less wonderful types ; and, in so far at least as the general
public is informed, the great Latin tradition soon comes to an end. Whatever
similar prodigies of the grace of God may exist at the present time, are hidden
from the knowledge of the world1.
The Latin tradition is by far the most
spectacular ; it produced what may be called the Grand Mysticism. But England
also has had its mystical current. There, however, it ran thin. Richard Rolle
of Hampole (died 1349) an<^ his followers
, chief among whom is Walter Hilton, are the main English mystics
until much later when we come to something different in George Fox and the
Friends. Fox is to be regarded not as a continuator of the medieval mysticism
represented by the preceding names, but as a relatively new departure. One
wishing to know Christian mysticism at its sanest and in its most fruitful form
must turn to the tradition of the Friends.
The German strand, with Boehme,
Eckhart, Tauler, Suzo, etc., differed from the Latin in being more
philosophical1. These German mystics were essentially, especially
Boehme and Eckhart, speculative minds who preferred to philosophize upon their
experiences rather than to foster and carefully describe them.
Within, as well as among these several
groups—Latin, English, and German—there were communications ; so that the
degree of originality of any particular individual is very difficult to
establish. Catherine of Genoa was in relation with the Franciscans ; Francois
de Osuna and St John of the Cross were teachers of Santa Theresa, and Mme Guyon
learned from Francois de Sales and Mme de Chantal. Molinos who inspired Mme
Guyon quotes letters from Santa Theresa and from Mme de Chantal, the spiritual
daughter of Francois de Sales. The torch passed from hand to hand among the
Latin mystics. Between the groups the relation is less close ; how close, we
are not in a position to tell. But this seems incontestable, that wherever
there existed a man of the temperament of Francis of Assisi, believing devotedly
in the Christian God of love, and in possession of the teachings of St Paul and
of the Fourth Gospel, there the essential requirements for the production of
ecstasy, mystically interpreted, were fulfilled. A frequent realization of
these conditions would explain a frequent spontaneous production throughout
Christendom of the core-phenomenon of Grand Mysticism. Much less independence
can be expected with respect to the finer elaborations of the Journey of the
Soul to God2.
* * *
There are few topics with a literature
so vast and elaborate as that of mysticism where the facts which are its
occasion have been so persistently slighted. Apart from a few recent
pubheations, there is Hardly anything in that voluminous production deserving
of the attention of those who wish to know the truth ; it is a literature of
propaganda and of edification. The basal facts are presented in a
1
On German speculative mysticism, see, H. Delacroix, Essai sur
le mysticisme spiculatif en Allemagne an XlVeme siecle, Paris, 1899.
2
On the question of independence, of originality, and of the
influence of theories, see Delacroix, Etudes d'Histoire et de Psychologie du
Mysticisme, pp. 76-80 ; 345 ff.
fragmentary way and inaccurately, for
the purpose of illustrating traditional views or for the solace of afflicted
souls. No correct understanding of mysticism may be expected unless it be based
upon a detailed and careful study of the mystical experiences. We shall,
therefore, introduce the reader to Christian mysticism by means of somewhat
detailed accounts of the lives of several of its great exponents : Suzo, St
Catherine of Genoa, Santa Theresa, Mme Guyon and St Marguerite Marie. These
accounts will not seem unnecessarily circumstantial to those who really care to
understand mysticism. We shall then be prepared to consider separately the more
important problems of mysticism. In that connexion we shall find occasion to
draw confirming as well as new information from a considerable number of
mystics other than those just named,—in particular from a protestant,
contemporary mystic. Chapters on the Motives and on the Methods of Christian
mysticism will be followed by a comparative study of ecstatic trances, within
and without religion. The documentary foundation of this study will thus be much
broadened. We shall then try to give a psychological account of the beliefs and
of the effects of the beliefs connected with ecstatic trance and, in
particular, of the beliefs in divine Presence, in divine Union, and in
Illumination or Revelation. The two last chapters will be concerned
respectively with philosophical implications of mysticism and with practical
considerations.
The mystics named above have been
chosen for intensive analysis for two reasons : their experiences have been
described with a degree of fulness that meets the minimum requirements of a
psychological investigation, and they constitute the culmination of a great
historical movement and represent Christian mysticism in its most elaborate
form.
Against this second reason, protesting
voices may be raised. These mystics, it may be said, are not the most worthy of
admiration. They are rather extravagant instances, all or most of whom suffered
from some form of nervous instability, if not hysteria. This affirmation may
not be contradicted; but it does not constitute a valid argument against the
choice of these persons by the psychologist. Why should he concern himself only
with the physiologically and psychologically ordinary ? Much rather should he
follow the example of the physiologist when, in order to discover the normal
workings of the human body, he studies abnormal conditions. Disease, more
possibly than health itself, has taught us the nature of the normal processes.
Similarly with regard to the mind. The most significant advance in recent
psychology is seen, according to William James, in the new conceptions
regarding the so-called subconscious.
These, we owe to the investigation of
unusual and abnormal mental phenomena. More recently still, important knowledge
regarding suppression ” and the active processes of forgetting—knowledge with
which the name of Freud is closely associated—has been obtained chiefly again
as a result of observations of disorders of behaviour. That which is
inconspicuous in a normal organism, attracts attention when it functions in an
unusual way. Moreover, the mystics who have given to mysticism its lustre are
no other than the extravagant persons we have chosen. They, more than
any others, have given to Christian mysticism its classic form and they are, as
a matter of fact, recognized by either the Roman or the Protestant Church or by
both, as true and great mystics.
If these conspicuous mystics stood
apart, disconnected from the ordinary Christian worshippers, they would still
deserve the attention of the psychologist. But, however extravagant they may
be, they express needs and aspirations present in the rank and file of worshippers.
The impulses and purposes of ordinary worship are at the root of the behaviour
of the great mystics : ordinary communion with God constitutes, as we shall
see, the first step on the way to ecstasy. However physiologically unusual and
mentally extravagant these wonders of the grace of God may be, the psychologist
interested in the understanding of religious life cannot do otherwise than
regard them as a most promising source of information.
The significance of this book to the
reader will depend largely upon his recognition of the connexion of grand
mysticism with the most vital part of ordinary Christian worship. We shall,
therefore, indicate briefly that connexion.
When writing upon the higher
religions, most authors disregard the manifestations of purely objective
religion. They seem to them too insignificant to be taken into account, and so
they say of mysticism that it is the very essence of all religion. Although we
have found reason to criticize that opinion, we also regard the mystical tendency
as characteristic of whatever is best and most vital in rehgion, and we realize
that, among the civilized, objective intercourse with God usually becomes a
yearning of the soul for contact with, or participation in, the divine Power
and Goodness. This tendency appears with incontrovertible evidence in the forms
assumed by Christian prayer. The begging, bargaining, and intercessory prayer
occupies clearly a large part even of Christian worship, and yet most writers
on Christian prayer almost disregard that form of prayer. They disregard it
because it seems to them an inferior kind of prayer and because, as a matter of
fact, among educated Christians the first movement of the pious soul on
entering a church or in private devotion is to turn away from the complexities
of the militant fife in order to withdraw within herself, there to hear the
voice of God and to feel His loving presence.
In the opinion of enlightened
Protestantism, prayer is “ the movement of the soul putting itself into personal
relation and contact with the mysterious power whose presence it feels1.”
We may, therefore, say with Joseph Marechal, professor of theology at the
Institut Catholique, that “ inner devotion, sustained by ritual forms or by
vocal prayer, may therefore be considered as a first step on the road to
mystical union3.”
Ordinary prayer, as defined by
Protestant and Roman Catholic theologians alike, and the relation with God
characteristic of grand mysticism, represent the limits between which move the
more vital—the mystical—Christian worship. If, then, most of the ordinary
worship is a rudimentary mysticism, much that is to be said of the higher
degrees of mysticism finds application to the form of ordinary worship dominant
in Christianity3. This must now be borne in mind as we proceed to
the study of striking instances of the mystical life.
* * *
Opinions are strangely at odds as to
the social value of the mystics. In 1902, I wrote : “ Until recently the few
scientists who had cast a more or less disdainful glance upon them, had noted
little more than ecstasies, visions, catalepsies, extravagant penances, and
they had imagined that the word ‘ hysteria ’ explained everything. I do not
hesitate to say that despite the naivete of their admiration, the Christian
believers have come nearer a just appreciation of mystical life than the
materialistic scientists .” During the twenty years that have elapsed since these words
were written, the scientific interest in religious mysticism has grown apace
and with it a discriminating appreciation of its significance. Professor
Royce’s high praise would need but a little toning down to express my own
opinion : “ As a religious teacher he (the mystic) is inspiring, first of all,
just because
1
Auguste Sabatier, Outlines of a Philosophy of Religion based on
Psychology and History, New York, J. Pott & Co., 1902, p. 28. “ When in
prayer the soul tends to pass into its Master,” writes J. Second in La
Pri&re, Etude de Psychologic Religieuse, Alcan, 1911, p. 40.
2
Joseph Marechal, S. J., Rev. Philos., 1912, vol. XXI, p.
427.
3
In chapters XV and XVI of the Religious Consciousness,
Pratt discusses and demonstrates the connexion between ordinary worship and
grand mysticism.
he appeals to your own individuality.
He breathes the common spirit of all the higher religions when he conceives
your goal as an inner salvation, and your search for truth as essentially a
practical effort to win personal perfection. It is no wonder then that the
mystics have been the spiritual counsellors of humanity.” f1-' “
Mysticism has been the ferment of the faiths, the forerunner of spiritual
liberty, the inaccessible refuge of the nobler heretics, the inspirer, through
poetry, of countless youth who knew no metaphysics, the comforter of those who
are weary of finitude. It has determined, directly or indirectly, more than
half the technical theology of the Church
.”
If there is still in certain quarters
a surprising inability to appreciate the profound significance of Christian
mysticism, there is in others an equally great lack of discrimination as to who
and what among the mystics deserve respect and admiration. It is unfortunate
for instance, that a Marguerite Marie Alacoque should have been set up before
men as an object of special reverence. And it is also regrettable that it has
become a widespread habit to speak of the mystic as of one “ in touch with the
absolute and eternal,” one who “ has passed out of the finite into the infinite
world,” and the like, ad nauseam. These expressions do not add anything
to our understanding of mysticism, and they betray too clearly a propensity to
melodrama and grandiloquence.
* * *
As this is not an historical treatise,
we shall report little more than the events that may bear upon our
psychological problems. Except for the placing of Mme Guyon before St Theresa,
we shall take up our instances in chronological order. This inversion is useful
for purposes of exposition. Because the documents referring to Mme Guyon and St
Theresa are much fuller than those referring to the others, these two will be
discussed at greater length. It would be far wiser for the reader to omit
altogether the other cases and examine carefully these two, than to skim
through all of them ; nothing of great consequence would be missed by following
that procedure.
A warning should be added regarding a
trait common in different degrees to all our great mystics. Their writings are
marred by an inexactness approaching at times deliberate falsehood. This defect
is due in the first instance to a strong natural tendency to exaggeration,
intensified by hortatory and theoretical purposes. They do not write carefully
and exactly in the sense in which a scientifically trained person understands
these terms. Inaccuracy was facilitated by the long lapse of years which, in
most instances, separated the event related from the date of the record.
Heinrich Suzo1 (1300-66)
The great mystical tradition of which
Germany can boast, is more speculative than practical. Eckhart and Boehme, in
particular, prefer to discant upon metaphysical questions rather than to dwell
descriptively upon the mystical experience and its practical value. In any
case, that which is known about these two philosophers is quite insufficient
for the purpose of this investigation. The autobiographical account of Suzo,
fragmentary and without chronological order though it is, comes nearer to
satisfying our requirements.
Suzo was bom in 1300 or a little
earlier, on the shores of Lake Constance, in Suabia. Both his father and his
mother belonged to the lower nobility. The mother was familiar with religious
lovetrances and seems to have possessed all the traits that go to the making
of a remarkable mystic. The opposition of the father, a child of this world as
Suzo describes him, deprived her of any chance which she might otherwise have
had to achieve such distinction. The son inherited his mother’s delicate and
romantic sensibility. He was, moreover, very early introduced by her to
devotional religion. At the age of thirteen, he entered the schools of the
Dominican Order and was for a time under the direct influence of Meister
Eckhart. Nevertheless, until the age of eighteen, his development had been
commonplace enough. The adolescent was not at peace with himself and seems not
to have known why. Life did not satisfy him. At that age a sudden enlightment
marked a step forward in his development. He realized that the main cause of
his disquiet was his lovelessness2. Suzo was one of those tender
creatures whose only reason for existence seems to be to love and be loved.
In entering the Dominican Order he had
had to give up the love of woman. He discovered soon that he had to give up his
male companions also, for they found pleasure in things forbidden by his
conscience. The loneliness of the life-prospect opening before him frightened
him. But the Church offers a substitute for earthly love: an incomparable,
divine love. The young man resolved to make a trial of it. “ See,” said he to
himself, “ whether this great Mistress
1
I use Denifle’s Deutsche Schriften des seligen Heinrich Seuse,
Munchen, 1876. The first volume contains the so-called “ Life ” of the Saint.
2
This conversion is related in a few brief lines in the first
chapter of the Life.
of whom you hear such wonders would
not become your love ; for a young and an unsteady heart can hardly remain long
without a personal love ” (IV)1. For a space of time, exactly how
long we do not know, that thought haunted him. At last the day came when he
found the heavenly bride. “ Then entered into his soul the original source of
all good. In it he found everything that is spiritually beautiful, lovable, and
desirable.” " Should I be,” he continues, “ the husband of a queen, my
soul would find pride in it ; but, now, you are the Empress of my heart, the
bestower of all gifts. In you I possess riches enough and all the power that I
want. I care no longer for the treasures of earth ” (IV).
Thus, Suzo discovered experientially
the love of God, and found in it the substitute without which religious life
would have been an unacceptable martyrdom. “ Ewige Weisheit,” is the
name he gives to his divine love. In his vivid imagination, the Eternal Wisdom
is incarnated, according to circumstances, in Jesus or in any saint, but
preferably in the Virgin, young and beautiful. Having discovered a way of
satisfying his burning heart, Suzo’s life enters into a new phase. Temptations
still continue to plague him, but he has found his way ; he knows by the
strongest of all testimony that he belongs to heaven.
We shall not insist here upon the
warmth and intimacy of Suzo’s love-relation with the feminine Ewige
Weisheit. We may, however, transcribe a passage that sets forth in a
charming way the knightly nature of his early attachment to his divine
Mistress. In his country, there is, he tells us, an old custom. At the
beginning of the new year young men go out at night to sing and to recite
poetry to their beloved, and the favoured ones receive crowns from them. One
year, as Suzo heard the singing of the young men, “ His loving heart was so
moved that before day-break he went before the image of
the pure mother with her tender babe pressed against her heart, knelt and sang
silently and sweetly in his soul. He praised her for beauty, nobility, virtue,
tenderness, and freedom never without dignity, in which she surpassed all
virgins of the world.” He told her, "You are the love whom alone my heart
loves ; for you I have spurned all earthly love. Therefore, beloved of my
heart, let me enjoy thy love and let me to-day receive a crown from thee ” (X).
Few Christian mystics have equalled Suzo
in the cruel severity and the duration of the torments which he inflicted upon
himself. One could wish this tender soul might have been spared the repulsive
pains of extreme asceticism. But the destruction, by torturing the body, of.
the evil tendencies of the flesh and of the pride of the spirit was an
established tradition. By him, as by others, voluntary suffering was regarded
in addition as expiation for sin and as visible token of utter devotion to God.
The twenty years during which Suzo
persisted, despite the opposition of those about him, in an extravagant
ascetism, constitute a period characterized by heroic strivings toward entire
inner unification. During a part of that time ecstasies were very frequent. We
are told that during ten years they occured as“often as twice a day ; they
served to sustain and encourage him. Exaltation was not, however, continuous ;
it was broken by discouraging moments of " dryness.”
The time came at last when the
bleeding saint realized that he could not continue. ” He was so wasted that his
only choice was between dying and giving up those practices.” God showed him
that asceticism had served as a good beginning, but that now the divine work of
sanctification was to continue in another way. Thereupon he threw all his instruments
of torture into a stream (XX).
This deliverance marks the end of a
period of absorption in himself—" introversion,” as the Freudians say—and
the beginning of an external activity that lasted to the end of his life. Until
then he had refused contact with the World; the walls of the monastery had been
his boundaries. Now, he undertook, in the measure of his strength to bring the
World to God. From this moment we find him ever in action, on pilgrimages, on
errants of mercy, founding monasteries, etc.
In each one of our great Christian
mystics we shall note a similar period of inner preparation or introversion,
marked usually by severe asceticism, followed by vigorous external activity. It
is a fact explicable on the same general principle as the passage from a period
of preparation to one of productivity in other individuals. Suzo had achieved
to a considerable extent the conquest of the natural man. He was weary of
needless self-examination, weary of selfinflicted crosses ; they seemed to
have done all they could for him ; his apprenticeship was over. Under these
circumstances it is natural that the call to work in the vineyard of the Lord
should have rung louder and louder. Yet, after twenty years of cloistered life,
he shrank from affronting the World in the quality of messenger of the Lord. A
vision encouraged him. He saw a page bringing him a complete accoutrement of
knight. The page addressed him thus : "Until now, you have been a servant {Knecht);
from this moment God wants you to be a knight ” (XXII).
Suzo differed from certain mystics in
that he regarded his active life not merely as a harvesting time, but also as a
means of completing his own sanctification (Gelassenheit\ In the
monastery he had been protected as a delicate flower in a hothouse. No wonder
that his timid, modest nature shrank in the presence of the World. Would he be
able to bear the new scourges that awaited him : ingratitude, deception,
calumny, hatred ? These torments would be much more grievous than those he had
been in the habit of inflicting upon himself. Would his fortitude be equal to
them ? He sought to prepare himself for the ordeal; the ideal of total
self-surrender (Gelassenheit') developed in his mind1. He had
to learn not only not to be jealous, not to think evil of others ; but also to
bear meekly jealously and calumny. The natural man must die altogether and God
alone must five in him.
Poor Suzo’s anticipation of calumny
was only too completely realized. It may be left to the reader to conjecture
the malignity of the accusations that were likely to fall upon a missionary
received with open arms in women’s monasteries. The success of this poetical
and tender soul discoursing upon divine love in terms of human passion, is easy
to conceive. But he seems to have come out of every storm unspotted and
triumphant.
In this connexion should be noted the
presence in his life, as in that of most other great mystics, of an intimate
friend of the opposite sex. Elisabeth Staglin, his spiritual daughter, as he
calls her, assumed without his knowledge the task of recording his doings and
sayings. On hearing of the existence of her manuscript, he commanded her to
hand it over to him and burned it. Fortunately she had kept back a portion of
it. Later on, Suzo came into possession of that remainder also and used it to
prepare the Life.
In many passages of that book and of
the Bilchlein, there is evidence of a tendency to ascribe to the final
condition of the servant of God characteristics that belong only to the moments
of ecstasy and automatism. This is an obvious confusion. The expression, “
Total surrender of the self to God,” when it refers to Suzo’s active life,
means something quite different from what it means when used in the description
of trance or semi-trance states. And the statement, “ nothing is left for man
to do of himself, he acts automatically,” is literally true not of the final
condition of the mystics but only of their brief moments of partial or total
loss of self-consciousness and of automatism. Final remarks as to this
confusion will be
1
On self-surrender and passivity, see Von innerlichen
Gelassenheit, vol. Ill, PP- 525» 55i-
added when we have seen how widespread
it is. Here we wish merely to observe that, as Suzo proceeds on his missionary
errands, he is obviously in full possession of his critical powers and
consciously self-determined—even though he seeks to act in accordance with
God’s will. His own account of his dealings with the people he meets does not
bear any other interpretation.
We have also to remark that St
Theresa’s elaborate system of gradually developing mystical states, forming a
hierarchy, does not apply to Suzo’s, nor, as we shall see, to most other
mystics. Almost from the first he enjoyed ecstasies which she would have
classed at or near the top of her “ Ladder of Love,” this one, for instance : “
It happened that at the beginning (of his converted life), on the day of St
Agnes, he went in the choir immediately after the noon meal. He was alone. At
that time his trials were particularly heavy to bear. As he was there,
comfortless and lonely, his soul was ravished in his body or out of it. Then he
saw and heard what no tongue can utter. It was without form or mode of
existence, and yet it held all the joy that all existing creatures can hold.
His heart was at once yearning and satisfied. He stood transfixed, lost to
himself and to all things. Was it day or night ? He did not know. It was an
expression of the sweetness of eternal life in silence and peace. He said then,
‘ if this is not heaven, I do not know what is heaven.’ This state must have
lasted one hour or a half hour. Whether the soul remained in the body or was
separated from it, he did not know. During that short time his body suffered so
much that he thought that no man, unless at death, could suffer as much. He
came to himself heaving deep sighs and his body sank to earth helpless, like a
man who faints ” (HI). The impression made by this ecstasy was deep and
lasting. For a while afterwards he felt as if floating in midair ; and, for a
long time, there remained “ a heavenly taste that made him yearn for God1.”
Suzo seems to have been familiar with
the whole range of the phenomena of Grand Mysticism, not excepting long periods
of semisomnambulism : We have already mentioned
moments of discouragement, depression, and barrenness. He was frequently
1
This and similar experiences will be discussed in the sections
treating of ecstasy.
encouraged and directed by
automatisms, mainly visual. A possible aptitude for visual imagery was probably
improved by his habit of withdrawing each day to his oratory for rest and
meditation. , Somnolence would frequently take place and with it hypnagogic
■ ( VI hallucinations. Brilliant lights, in his case as in that of
others, constituted a striking and frequent characteristic of the visions1.
He would
often come to himself with the conviction that divine - secrets had been
revealed to him, even though he was not able to give them verbal expression.
Once, for instance, “ it was somehow shown him in a way that cannot be
expressed in words, how God has made angels each different from the others in
its nature .” He was familiar not only with sensory hallucinations but with
those they call “ intellectual.” With regard to these he speaks, as others do,
of an “ immediate ” view or apprehension (Schauen) of the divinity, and
thinks that, the less imagery in these experiences, the higher they are and the
nearer to absolute reality is the knowledge they imparts.
* * *
Can any periodicity, significant with
regard to religious progress, be detected in Suzo’s life ? There are prolonged
phases of depression and inefficiency, and phases of exaltation and productive
activity, and shorter moments of depression (dryness) are interspersed throughout
his life, but there is no true periodicity.
For a while, at the beginning, he
identified his self both with the worldly and with the godward tendencies. But
soon the former were regarded as alien to his self. The remainder of Suzo’s
earthly journey became a struggle, with the help of ascetic practices, of
missionary activities, and of the mystical method of worship, to destroy these
disowned tendencies. He was less dependent than other mystics upon external
events.
Of his final condition, regarded from
a religio-ethical point of view, it may be said that he rose near the top of
the class of mystics under study.
Catherine of Genoa (1447-1510)
. 1. Biographical.—Catherine
Fiesca was bom in Genoa in 1447. The Fieschi were the greatest of the great
Guelph families of that town. At Catherine’s birth, the Fieschi were at the height
of their power and splendour. One of her cousins was a Cardinal, and her own
father was Viceroy of Naples to King Rene of Anjou. She was the youngest of
five children. “ The beautiful, tall figure ; the noble oval face with its
lofty brow, finely formed nose, and powerful, indeed obstinate chin ; the
winning countenance with its delicate complexion and curling, sensitive,
spiritual mouth-line ; deep greyblue, spiritual eyes ; still more the quickly
and intensely impressionable, nervous and extremely tense and active physical
and psychical organization ;—all these things we are not merely told, we can
still see them and find them, in part, even in her remains, but more fully in
her portrait, and above all, in her numerous authentic utterances.”
Nothing certain has come down to us
concerning her fife before the age of thirteen, but between thirteen and
sixteen she is known to have been drawn very deeply to the conventual life as
she saw it exemplified in her own sister, a Canoness of an Augustinian convent.
Before her desire to enter the convent could be realized, her father had died
and “ a particular combination from amongst the endless political rivalries and
intrigues of Genoa soon closed in upon the beautiful girl.” She was sacrificed
in marriage for a political purpose to a man her equal in rank and wealth but
profoundly unsuited to her in temperament and ideals. Giuliano, to whom she was
married in 1463 at the age of sixteen, was young and rich, “ a man of
undisciplined, wayward, impatient, and explosive temper, selfish, and
self-indulgent.’' His almost constant absence from home could hardly have been
regretted by Catherine. For five years, she nursed her sorrow in seclusion.
Then, for several years, she " tried to find relief in worldly gaieties and
feminine amusements, short, however, of all grave offence against the moral
law. At the end of these experiences and experiments she, noble, deep nature
that she was, found herself, of course, sadder than ever, with apparently no
escape of any kind from out of the dull oppression, the living death of her
existence and of herself.”
By 1471 she had become altogether
disgusted with the world and with herself. Her sole remaining desire was to
die. For two years longer she dragged on along her weary way; then came a
dramatic crisis that wholly altered her existence. The account of this
conversion, as it comes down to us through her favourite disciple, Vernazza,
incomplete though it is, agrees well with our knowledge of such crises. It had
been preceded by a long period of preparation during which glimpses of the
saintly life, of God as lover, of the ecstatic gift of oneself to Him, and
through Him to humanity, had come and gone. The World had offered her nothing
that could content her higher self. But to choose God meant a total renunciation
of self. This, even though she would, she could not accomplish. Several years
passed. Then, as she was one day on her knees for confession, “ her heart was
pierced by so sudden and immense a love of God, accompanied by so penetrating a
sight of her miseries and sins and of His Goodness, that she was near falling
to the ground. In a transport of pure and all-purifying love she was drawn away
from the miseries of the world ; and, as it were beside herself, she kept
crying out within herself : ‘No more world ; no more sins ! ’ ”
The priest, not noticing the condition
of his penitent, withdrew for a moment; when he returned, she was just able to
say, “ ‘ Father, if you please, I should like to let this confession stand over
to another time.’ And returning home, she was so on fire and wounded with the
love which God had interiorly manifested to her, that, as if beside herself,
she went into the most private chamber she could find, and there gave vent to
her burning tears and sighs. And, all instructed as she had suddenly become in
prayer, her lips could only utter : ' O Love, can it be that Thou hast called
me with so much love, and revealed to me, at one view, what no tongue can
describe.’ ”
This conversion, like that of Suzo and
of our other mystics, was primarily an experience, of the " love of God,”
rather than the sudden triumph of altruistic over egoistic impulses and
desires. Progress in these lines was a consequence of the new love-relation
established with God. Whether or not her confessor played, in Catherine’s
instance, a role similar to that of the Franciscan monk and of Father la Combe
in the career of Mme Guyon, we do not know. We may suppose that the crisis
assumed the more readily the form of. a love-storm because of the long
sex-repression to which this young married woman had been condemned.
2. The Phases of St Catherine’s
Life.—Hugel finds it convenient to divide Catherine’s life into three
periods, (i) The first four years after conversion (1473-77), years of extravagant
asceticism and penances, of relentless struggle against the egoistic self. (2)
The middle period, by far the longest (1477-99), a period of great and
beneficent activity, of assured communion with God, and yet not altogether free
from temptation and struggle. (3) The eleven years, from 1499 to her death in
1510, characterized, on the one hand, by a permanent breaking down of her
health and by much that is mentally abnormal; and, on the other, by the
conviction of the suppression of the natural man and a sense of complete
agreement with the divine Will.
Her conversion transformed altogether
both her inner and her outer existence. By this time her husband had got his
financial affairs into such confusion that they found it advisable to vacate
their palace. Their income mounted still to one thousand two hundred pounds a
year—a very large revenue for the time ; yet, six months after her conversion,
they chose to move into a humble house near a large hospital in which she was
interested, in a section of Genoa inhabited by the poor. Giuliano also became a
convert, " in his own manner and degree,” says Hugel. They lived together,
but not as man and wife ; for they had agreed to a life of perpetual
continence. He became a Tertiary of the Order of St Francis, and devoted
himself together with her to the hospital and a foundling asylum connected with
it. In 1490, in the capacity of matron of the hospital, Catherine occupied a
small house within its precincts.
During the first period, we find her
rivaling the great ascetics in the severity of her penances, wearing a hair
shirt, never touching either meat or fruit, fasting often and long, lying at
night on thorns, refusing herself even the innocent pleasure of conversation
with friends. Six hours a day were spent in prayer. Her life ” was a continuous
striving to do things contrary to her natural bias and an alert looking to do
the will of others.” On entering the hospital service, one of her first
self-imposed tasks was to get rid of her squeamishness by constraining herself
to the most menial and dirty work.
It is not surprising that her health
should have suffered. She felt a fire in her heart that seemed to dry up and
burn her interior.. At times, “ so great a physical hunger would possess her
that she appeared insatiable ; and so quickly did she digest her food that it
looked as if she could have consumed iron.” When she walked, it was with the
eyes on the ground ; and she spoke in a tone so low as to be barely audible ; “
she seemed dead to all exterior things.” One need not be a physician to
conclude from this report that she was reduced to a very low level of vitality
and, during certain periods, made ravenous by partial starvation. All these
things she did, or thought she did, for the purpose of self-conquest.
From 1477, the beginning of the second
period, the severity of her austerities decreased, and her life gained
correspondingly in joy and expansive benevolence. Her relation with God passed
more frequently than before into a love-trance. “ She would at times have her
mind so full of divine love, as to be all but incapable of speaking; and would
be in so great a transport of feeling as to be obliged to hide herself so as
not to be seen. She would lose the use of her senses and remain as one dead ;
and, to escape the recurrence of such things, she would force herself to remain
in company. Even in the midst of her work, “ at times her hands would sink,
unable to go on, and weeping she would say, ‘ O my Love, I can no more ’ ; and
would thus sit for a while with her senses alienated.” Usually, however,
although she was deaf to intruders, she would hear the call to any duty,
however trifling. Whatever sensual indulgence there may have been in the
enjoyment of God’s favours, she continued faithfully to make them contribute to
her sanctification.
In 1490, she became matron of the
hospital, and for the six following years was in complete charge of this large
establishment1. But the work was too much for a constitution
undermined by long continued austerities. In 1496, her health having broken
down, she was compelled to resign her post and to give up all extraordinary
fasts and other ascetic practices.
It frequently happens that persons
displaying noble and heroic traits in unusual situations show contrasting
defects in the ordinary relations of life. It was not so with Catherine. Her
dealings with her wayward husband, for instance, were always patient, generous,
1 The hospital had 130 beds, and the asylum, in which she was also
interested, sheltered one hundred girls.
and forebearing, as he himself
acknowledged in his will; and her difficult relations with his illegitimate
child and its mother were praiseworthy.
The intimate relation of the great
mystics with God becomes on occasion surprisingly familiar, as for instance in
this incident. Giuliano was suffering from a long and painful illness, in
consequence of which he became so fretful and impatient that she feared for his
salvation. She cried aloud unto her Love, " O Love, I demand this soul of
Thee ; I beg Thee, give it me ; for, indeed Thou canst do so.” And having
persevered thus for about half-an-hour with many a plaint she was given an
interior assurance of having been heard
.”
And now, for the first time after
twenty-five years of Christian life, this self-reliant person felt the need of
the kind of comfort in spiritual and temporal matters to be gained from a
devoted confessor. She chose a priest, Don Marabotto by name. Never was this
good man in any sense her director, but he was “ ever gentle, patient, devoted,
and full of unquestioning reverence towards Catherine ; naif, and without
humor, thoroughly matter of fact, readily identifying the physical with the
spiritual.” He himself declared that “ she was guided and taught interiorly by
her tender Love alone, without the means of any fellow creature either
religious or secular.” To this friend she could report her experiences,
communicate her thoughts, and on him she could rely for whatever physical
comfort she permitted herself. He became her chief support on this earth during
her last years. To him we owe at least half the narrative of the Vita.
Is there not a significant discrepancy between the profession
made by all the divine lovers that God and God alone is sufficient to them,
and the bonds of close friendship and pure love most of them seem unable to
avoid with at_ least some one "human being of the opposite sex ?
The Saint enjoyed to the end
overpowering manifestations of the love of God. The Vita shows us her
naive, miracle-loving intimates endeavouring to get something more than mere
ejaculatory accounts of her love-experiences. “ Many a time she would say to
them, ' O would that I could tell what my heart feels.’ And her children would
say, ‘ O Mother, tell us something of it.’ And she would answer,' I cannot find
words appropriate to so great a love. But this I can say with truth, that if of
what my heart feels but one drop were to fall into Hell, Hell itself would
altogether turn into Eternal Life.’ ”
In the case of St Catherine, as of
many another mystic, the friends are chiefly to blame for the extravagant
interpretation of whatever seemed unusual to them. They are anxious that God’s
favours may not remain unexploited. Hugel insists that Catherine discriminated
very judiciously between her " physical ” and her “ spiritual ”
experiences, between natural disease and divine wonders. We are of another
opinion ; but, however that may be, so much is certainly true : she was ever
translating her physical disorders and discomforts into spiritual terms, finding
in them moral significance and using them as incentives to the perfect life.
When, for instance, the internal sensations of burning are pleasurable, they
" suggest and illustrate for her the joys and heal th-giving influence of
the presence of God ” ; when they are painful, they are turned to account in
order to " gain and develop her doctrine concerning Purgatory.”
Regarding Catherine’s spiritual
condition towards the close of her career, it should be noted that two years
before her death, in her first confession to Don Marabotto, she declared
herself unaware of any sin. " I should like to confess,” she says, "
but I cannot perceive any offense committed by me.” Her meaning, however, does
not seem to have been that she was perfect but merely that, as far as her light
went, she was not conscious of having committed any sin. Her doctrine was that
souls that have already travelled a long way toward perfection may not be aware
of the evil remaining in. them ; and that, later on, when they have progressed sufficiently
to realize these evils, they are no longer guilty of them. There is a healthy
self-confidence and frankness in this attitude of Catherine. One prefers it to
Santa Theresa’s somewhat maudlin lament that, whatever good opinion others may
have of her, she is fit only for the company of devils
.
Catherine’s health
grew worse and worse. In 1507 life had become so great a burden that she longed
to die. She begged her Love, if he would not take her to himself, at least to
allow her to go and see others die and be buried. Her Love consented, and so,
/11 ,
" for a time she went to see die
and be buried all those who died in the Hospital.” Unusual nervous disorders
multiplied. The Holy Communion exhaled a sweet odour. Thereupon she remarked,
“ O Love, dost Thou perhaps intend to draw me to Thyself with these savours ?
I want them not, since I want but Thee
alone and all of Thee.”
“ For many days this perfume restored
and nourished her body and soul.” The simple minded Marabotto, who was going
about smelling his own hand and wondering that it had no odour for him, was
informed by her that God gives such things “ only in cases of great necessity
and as an occasion of great spiritual profit.”
Comforting and monitory voices were
frequent. She suffered for a time from great cold, not altogether due to low
temperature. At other times, great internal heat, skin hypersesthesia and hyperalgesia
plagued her. She could not be kept in bed ; “ she was like a creature placed in
a great flame of fire, and it was impossible to touch her skin, because of the
acute pain which she felt from any such touch.” “ At times she would be
sensitive to such a degree that it was impossible to touch her sheets or a hair
of her head.”
Much of her suffering took the form of
“ attacks,” the nature of which we shall discuss in another place. She felt
great internal heat located chiefly about the heart, stifling sensations, and
spasms in the throat. Frequently the seizure would end in a death-like trance.
At other times, she would not lose consciousness altogether, but only speech
and sight. One day, after they had been bathing her mouth, she exclaimed, “ ‘ I
am suffocating.’ She said this because a little drop of water had trickled into
her throat and she could not gulp it down.” She would frequently vomit certain
food or all food ; yet, she never vomited the Eucharist. These attacks would
come and go with great suddenness, and her mood would alter with equal
rapidity.
There are in the Vita accounts
of several visits by more or less distinguished physicians. They never found
any trace of organic disorder, and were unable to do anything useful. As to
her, she was persuaded that her condition was not one requiring physic, and the
medicine she condescended to take was vomited. Shortly before her death, a
great consultation of ten physicians took place. They came to the same
conclusion as their predecessors and " departed recommending themselves to
her prayers.” She breathed her last in September, 1510, of a disorder which to
the rudimentary science of the time could not easily appear in any other light
than that of the supernatural.
Her condition had been aggravated by
the conviction, shared by her friends and physicians, that she was the especial
object of God’s ministrations. One cannot help wishing that this good Samaritan
might have been spared the repulsive disorders that disfigured her last years ;
or that, at least, she and her friends might have been able to attribute these
disorders to natural causes. But, in this failure as in others, they belonged
to their age. Had she been able to look upon her disorders as plain, repulsive
disease, she would probably have returned to tolerable hygienic habits, and
thus made possible at least a partial restoration of health.
The many “ wonders ” that cast a lurid
light upon the last years of Catherine's life may easily produce a distorted
impression of her career. It should not be forgotten that until 1499, i.e.,
during a long period of relative health, her life was one of self-control and
admirable self-sacrifice. Her days and much of her nights were given up with
unswerving steadfastness to the alleviation of the suffering of the sick and
the care of orphans.
* * *
One may, as we have done, divide the
life of St Catherine into a number of periods, but there is no real periodicity
in it, no rhythmic or cyclic succession of exaltation and depression. Her
marriage, which determined the beginning of years of deep misery, followed upon
political events far removed from her inner life. When, five years later, she
resolved to shake off her gloom and seek in worldly amusements some relief to
her conjugal situation, we have a departure again conditioned in part by external,
chance, circumstances. The sharpest turning point in her career is probably
her conversion. It is also chance, and not any particular law of rhythmic
development which occasioned that event just at the time it happened. It was,
nevertheless, a continuation or rather a culmination of inner struggles. Her
zeal in self-sacrifice and the fulfilment of God’s Will received at that time a
new impetus. The rest of her life may be regarded as a more or less regular
progression towards a consciousness of sinlessness which we found her
affirming two years before her death.
Ascetic practices began with the
conversion-crisis, in response to the then accepted view that in order to be
able to perform God’s Will the flesh must be subdued and made subservient to
the spirit by rigid discipline. A passionate craving to show devotion to the
divine Lover and other subordinate motives, intensified these practices ;
illness compelled her to mitigate them, and, at the very end, to give them up
altogether.
As to those briefer descents of the
vital tone below the normal level, familiar to everybody and known to the
mystics as states of dryness, if they followed each other according to any
particular rhythm, we have no way of finding it out, for the record in our
possession is too incomplete.
Mme Guyon (1648-1717)
1. Biographical.—Although less
widely known than Santa Theresa, Mme Guyon is no less interesting to students
of human nature. She is more original or, at least, of a more independent
temper than her Spanish sister. And, if she describes her ecstasies and trances
less minutely, she is less influenced by a desire for systematization and,
therefore, perhaps more reliable. Her comparative obscurity is due to the
disfavour with which the Church has looked upon her heretical teaching. There
were not in Santa Theresa the hard fibres necessary to the composition of a
heretic.
Jeanne Marie Bouverie de la Motte was
Mme Guyon’s maiden name. She was born in 1648 of very religious parents. Her
family belonged to the French nobility. She reports that when she was eight
years old the Queen of England visited her father and was so charmed by her
beauty and spariding intelligence that she desired to make her a lady of her
court. She was of a lively and high strung temperament; wilful, passionate,
extremely sensitive and, perhaps most of all, hungry for admiration. These
traits are likely to make a person trying even to those who love her.
While still very young, Jeanne was
placed in a convent where she passed most of the years that preceded her marriage.
The religious ideas and images which haunt the convents impressed her very
early. She had hardly reached her seventh year when she dreams of hell and
burns with desire to become a martyr. At the end of her father’s garden she has
a chapel dedicated to the Child Jesus where she performs childish devotions.
At twelve, she is a tall and beautiful
girl. It is at this time that, in consequence of a meeting with a priest, she
has her first spell of serious devotion. She locks herself in her room, and all
day long reads the works of St Francois de Sales and the life of Mme de
Chantal. In these works she learns “ what it is to make orison,” and from now
on she practises that form of spiritual exercise. She wishes that she might
have the heart of the whole human race in order to love God more. She imitates
Mme de Chantal and takes the same vows. In order to satisfy her longing for
mortification she performs for her father, in the absence of the servants, the
most menial tasks.
This admirable and extravagant zeal
lasts a year or two ; but, as she enters womanhood and young people flutter
about her, her attention and desires turn from the Creator to His creatures.
She exchanges St Francois for romances, which she “ loves madly.” Then, this
girl barely sixteen years old is given in marriage, regardless jpf her
consent, to a man far older than herself, and the tragedy of her life begins in
the same way as.in the case of St Catherine of Genoa. Her parents had taken
pleasure in “ showing her off.” In her new home it was quite different. “ They
listen to me,” she complains, “ only to contradict and blame me. If I talk
well, they say it is only for the purpose of showing off. Her new relatives
take pleasure in humiliating her. Her pride suffers horribly. Her husband, become
gouty, keeps his chamber more and more, and, at last, scarcely leaves it.
Behold the young wife transformed into nurse of a jealous husband under the
eyes of a mother-in-law, both ill-tempered and envious.
It is under the crushing misery of
this unhappy union that she begins_to feel an actual, need_pf God. The real
world had refused her ; very well, she would return to the ideal world of her
childhood, she would become the bride of Jesus. But nature does not easily
accommodate itself to this substitution of heaven for earth. It resists ; it
demands the usual satisfaction ; long and painful is the struggle.
Three years after her marriage, being
still tom between the tendencies of the natural man and an ideal that she could
not realize, she consults a Franciscan monk. At their first meeting, he said to
her : “ Seek God in your own heart and you will find Him there.” “ That was,”
she tells us, “ the stab of an arrow which quite pierced my heart. At that
moment I felt a wound very deep, as delicious as it was amorous, a sweetness
which was felt so powerfully by my senses that I could scarcely open my eyes
or my mouth ” (VIII). This experience opened a period of exaltation ; it
constitutes a turning point in her life. Soon after the Franciscan monk became
her director.
Nothing, perhaps, arrests the
attention so sharply in the Life of Mme Guyon as her need for affection
and admiration. We read that when she was but a child she could not be happy
without someone near her who loved her. Once married, her need of affection
became complicated with impulses of an undoubtedly sexual origin. After her
meeting with the priest, she would fall into states in which she possesses God
” in all his depth,” not in her thoughts and understanding, but “ in a sweet
way as something that one actually possesses as one’s own.” At times she could
not keep from falling into ecstatic trances in which the hours passed as
moments. Love would not give me one moment’s rest. I cried : O my Love, this is
enough—leave me.” She would tell God that she loved Him more than the most
passionate lover his mistress. If we put side by side with the preceding
passage another one, admirable for its candour, we shall have matter for
reflection upon the relation existing between the pleasures of sex and the
pleasures of mystic love. Monsieur Guyon found in the never-ending devotions of
his wife new cause for discontent. “ He said that in loving you so much, my
God, I would no longer love him. For he does not understand that true conjugal
love is that which you yourself create in the heart that loves you. It is true,
O pure and Holy God, that from the first you have implanted in me a love for
chastity so great that there is nothing in the world that I would not do to
gain it. I am always trying to persuade him of this.” This fact, however, did
not prevent her from fulfilling her conjugal duties ; but she wishes it
understood that here, as in other organic functions, her heart and soul are so
completely separated from her body that she does “ these things as if she did
them not.”
Whatever may be the origin and nature
of that burning love which dulls all other pleasures, it is a very potent
reality. Everywhere in her writings—in the Autobiography, in the Short
and Easy Way to Orison, in the Torrents—one feels the ardourpf a
soul burning \yith unsatisfied passion. “ I crave,” she cries, “ the love that
thrills and burns and leaves one fainting in an inexpressible joy and pain.”
God answers her cry, sets her aflame with passion, and, after the
gratification, still trembling in every limb, she says to him, “ O God, if you
would permit sensual people to feel what I feel, very soon they would leave
their false pleasures in order to enjoy so real a blessing.” This
characteristic of the religious life of Mme Guyon belongs also, in
different degrees, to every other Christian mystic ; we found it in Suzo
and in Catherine of Genoa, and we shall find it in the instances that are to
follow.
Leaving to a later time a more
searching study of the problem of divine love, we pass to another main trait of
Mme Guyon’s experience. Even during the years of innocent frivolity when she
devoured romances by night and rejoiced by day in the admiration of her
cousins, she was never able to follow her natural inclinations with complete
abandon. Deep down in hei’ heart she despised her coquetry and egoism. She
would at times go to church to weep and beg conversion at the feet of the
Blessed Virgin.
After the decisive interview with the
monk, she appeared, both to herself and to others, a changed being—so, at
least, she
tells us. She performed her duties
without the former reluctance and difficulty, and she saw herself with a keener
vision. The loved Master of her heart disclosed to her even the smallest
faults; He complained of her every action, of her way of walking, of her
penances and mortifications, of her charities, of her love for solitude. Her
desire for moral perfection was so great that she imagined the strange internal
pains which she felt at various times to be a punishment for her delinquencies.
And although her soul was so sensitive
to these pains “ that she would have preferred to be tom asunder rather than
suffer such torment,” she nevertheless submitted to them and did nothing to
allay them, either by confession or by penances ; for, they were in her
estimation the purifying work of a divine fire. The suffering that came
naturally to her seemed not enough. In order more quickly and completely to
overcome her bad natural impulses, she invented additional torments. One can
scarcely help admiring the heroism with which she seeks to conquer her egoism.
Every day this delicate woman undergoes long penances. She wears briers,
thorns, and nettles next to her skin ; she puts pebbles in her shoes ; she
denies herself everything that would please her palate. When she becomes
conscious of a dislike, she has no rest until she has overcome it. She relates,
for instance, how she took spittle into her mouth : " One day, when I was
alone, I saw some spittle, the most disgusting that I have ever seen, and I had
to put my tongue and lips upon it; the act was so nauseating that I could not
control myself, and my heart beat so violently that I thought it would burst
every vein in me and that I would vomit blood. I continued doing that as long
as my heart revolted ; it was rather long
.”
The actions of Mme Guyon often take
place independently of her will. She speaks in the passive tense, “ I was
compelled.” She ends the passage just quoted with the remark, “ I did not do
that through habit, or intention, or forethought. You were ever within me, O my
God, and ybu were a master so severe and exacting that you would not let me
pass even the least thing. Whenever I set out to do a thing, you stopped me
short and made me, without my thinking, do your wishes and all that was
displeasing to my senses until they became so willing that they lost all their
inclinations and all repugnance.” A physician would see here uncontrollable
impulses and automatisms.
But if, at first, she tortured herself
in order to conquer the natural man, it looks as if she came to love suffering
for its own sake. Her “ crosses ” became her delight. That she exaggerates, is
evident and her statements must be taken with a grain of salt. “ I submitted
myself,” she writes, for example, " to all the hardships that I could
think of; but they were not sufficient to satisfy my desire for suffering. I
often (sic) had my teeth pulled, although they did not ache. This was
refreshing to me. But when my teeth ached, I never thought of having them
pulled ; on the contrary, they became my good friends and I was sorry to lose
them without pain.” Perversion of sensibility is added here to the usual
purpose. There is, however, one point of great importance that separates her
c-se from those of ordinary perversion : she never lost sight of the moral goal
towards which suffering was to direct her.
During this period, God favoured her
more and more frequently with his incomparable presence. At times, against her
wish, contemplation turned into a trance. She noticed, for instance, that she
was seldom able to hear the voice of the priest, during the sermon. “ He made
such an impression upon my heart and possessed me so completely, that I could
neither open my eyes nor hear what he was saying; ” she fell, that is, into a
lethargy in which impressions from without were perceived either vaguely or not
at all1. This somnolence was deliciously sweet to her. Little by
little a habit became established and, during certain periods of her life, she
would fall into that partial sleep at any hour, wherever she happened to be and
whatever she might be doing ; the mere sound of God’s name was sufficient to
put her to sleep. The rest of the time, she was not always completely awake.
One day when her sick husband inquired about the condition of the garden, she
went to it, at his repeated request, " more than ten times ” without
seeing anything !
The condition characterized by an
almost continuous consciousness of mystical union and an unusual degree of
success in suppressing the natural man, lasted for a period of about two and a
half years. Then a more usual state of sensibility returned. Union with God no
longer came of itself; she even found it difficult to bring it about at will.
If she was now still unable to follow the celebration of mass, it was not, as
formerly, because her eyes closed of themselves ; but, on the contrary, because
she could not keep them closed ; she could not, even for one moment, compose
herself for meditation. Self-mortification had become difficult and unendurable
the pains formerly bom with pleasure. She complained of dullness, of stupidity,
and of an inability to hold her appetites in check : “ I could
1 On attacks of sleep in hysteria, see Lefons Cliniques sur
I'Hystirie et I’Hypnotisms, A. Pitres, vol. II, pp. 226-38.
not restrain my words, nor refrain
from eating what I liked,” she writes.
God had forsaken her ; or rather,
instead of remaining the loving Bridegroom, he had become a rigorous judge. She
thought that she had fallen back into the state of the natural man. It was,
however, not so much the triumph as the persistent presence of bad inclinations
that tormented her. There raged in her soul a continual battle against her
selfish nature ; the love of ease, of pleasure, and of praise unceasingly came
into conflict with her more disinterested impulses. Her husband wished her to
wear decollete gowns, such as other women wore ; she herself took pleasure in
doing so, but "although her gowns were not nearly so low as those of
others,” she wept inconsolably because she felt that she had been a backslider.
She rebels at her mother-in-law’s conduct toward her and afterwards is ready to
go to any length to expiate that fault. She goes for a walk, “ rather to be
looked at than for the pleasure of exercise,” and, on her return, she sheds
tears of humiliation. " I have within me,” she writes, " an
executioner who tortures me unceasingly.”
He quite fails to understand Mme Guyon
who thinks that the discontent which haunted' her during this period of
depression was entirely the result of a lowered morality. Her conduct is little
altered; it is something else that has changed. She no longer, or only rarely
enjoys mystical delights ; her attention is no longer engrossed by the
Bridegroom and she seeks elsewhere the satisfaction of her cravings. But, on
returning from innocent amusements, she remembers the caresses of her Lover and
cries, " O my God, this is not you. You alone can give true pleasures.”
For seven years, that is, up to the
year 1680 (she was then thirty- two years old), she was in the condition of “
total privation ” described above. This expression must not, however, be taken
literally ; she exaggerates. There were recurrences of a satisfactory affective
state ; in particular, the five weeks following the dedication of a private
chapel and the nine months (or less) of a pregnancy. But for most of the time
she suffered either from an ill-defined distress or even from better localized
bodily illnesses, at times extraordinarily violent. Throughout that period her
physiological energy was at low ebb. Everything conspired, it seemed, to
overwhelm her. She lost in rapid succession a son; her father, her only comfort
in her wretched family life ; a daughter ; and, finally, Mother Granger, who had
become her chief moral support on this earth. A little later, twelve years
after her marriage, as she had just been delivered of her sixth child, her
husband also died and she was left alone with her mother-in-law. She had not
even a confessor upon whom to lean, for she had lost the priest who had been
the instrument of her conversion; and, since then, no confessor had gained much
influence over her. Thus, she arrived at the “ state of death ” ; her
life-curve had reached its lowest point. It seemed to her that she was forever
effaced from God’s heart and from the heart of all creatures. She even believed
that she was resigned to that condition.
An occurence should be mentioned here
which shows the energy, the intelligence, and the practical sense of which she
was capable when circumstances demanded. After the death of her husband she put
his complicated and confused business affairs into such good order, in so short
a time, that everyone including herself was astonished, because she had thought
herself quite ignorant of those matters
.
Her return to divine favour is bound
up in a very illuminating way with the birth of tender relations
with a certain Father la Combe. She had made his acquaintance
some years previously. Their first interview had produced a deep impression on
both of them. She said to him things which opened the way to the inner life ;
he admitted on his side, at a later date, that he had gone away completely
transformed. They lost sight of, without apparently forgetting, each other;
for, one day, several years later, she improved an opportunity of writing him
concerning one of her servants. On the same occasion she recommended herself to
his prayers. He comforted her by assuring her that the state of her soul,
painful though it was, was nevertheless one of grace.
The Father was then at Thonon, only a
few miles distant from Geneva. Mme Guyon sees in this the hand of God, who, in
her opinion set about contriving devices to make her go to that city. An angel
announced to her in a dream that God wished her to be in Geneva, and some
marvellous coincidences came about to lead her there. She persuaded herself,
however, that she was quite indifferent, that she had no wish in the matter, no
desire other than the will of God.
Father la Combe also had' ‘ indications.
’ ’ She had asked him to say mass for her on the day of Mary Magdalen. During
the service, he heard a voice repeat three times with great vehemence, “ You
shall live in the same place.” That same day Mme Guyon recovered her long lost
peace of mind. “ It was on that happy day of Mary Magdalen,” she writes, “ that
my soul was completely freed from its pain ” ; and she adds, “ After the first
letter from Father la Combe I began to live a new life.”
At the first meeting with the Father
after their long separation she was surprised to feel an inner peace and a joy
never before felt with any other person. “ It seemed to me,” she wrote, “ that
a great wave of grace swept from him to me, passing through our inmost souls,
and returning from me to him, so that he experienced the same feeling. But it
was a grace so holy, so pure, so clear, that it was as a wave ebbing and
flowing and then losing itself in the divine unity.” In similar terms she had
tried at an earlier time to describe her relations with God Himself.
Her peace was such that she felt the
need of a particular word to describe it. She called it the “ Paix-Dieu.”
Why not the Paix- la Combe ? Why did she interpret that inexpressible
inner state as the “ splendid and holy ” return of Him she thought she had lost
for ever ? For years she had awaited in physical torment and moral desolation
the return of the heavenly Bridegroom. He had not come. Now a man, with whom
she had at an earlier time exchanged those sentiments which are the harbinger
of love, enters her life : her heart awakes, her soul lives again, and “ God’s
love ” manifests itself once more in trances inexpressibly delightful.
These two souls became twin souls,
travelling together—one might almost say one in the other—on the same
pilgrimage, encouraging, strengthening, counselling, and loving each other so
truly that they did not spare themselves the suffering that purifies. La Combe and
God became interchangeable. There was, she writes, “ complete unity, so that I
could no longer distinguish him from God.”
Shortly after the renewal of her
relation with the Father she entered the Ursiline monastery of Thonon, on the
lake of Geneva. She had now achieved her long cherished desire to break with
her family in order to join a religious community. From that time, Father la
Combe was her confessor and, with the help of Providence and until persecutions
threw them into prison1, they arranged to live most of the time near
each other. ■
Mme Guyon’s misery before the advent
of Father la Combe had obviously a bodily and a moral cause. The former reacted
unfavourably upon the latter and vice versa : the ceaseless conflicts
within her of contradictory tendencies—of the natural against the spiritual
man—exhausted her ; and the aches of her debilitated body
1 See, for a similar case which, however, ended in immorality,
Magnan, Lefons Cliniques, vol. I, p. 130.
added themselves to, and intensified
her moral torments. She does not clearly know how to account for her condition
; for, on the one hand, she declares an all-embracing guilt; and, on the other,
she recognizes that she does not know of what she is guilty. She is like Bunyan
making an imaginary " unpardonable sin ” the scapegoat for organic
distress. She says, “ everything seemed to me full of faults : my charities, my
alms, my prayers, my penances ; one and all they rose against me. Either by
you, O my God, or by myself, or by all creatures, I felt myself universally
condemned.” But she adds, “ Although the condemnation was so thorough, I could
find nothing of which to accuse myself.” This pathetic confusion of moral guilt
with physiological misery, is responsible for a very large part of the tragic in
the lives of our mystics as well as in those of other distinguished
religionists. But why did she in the first place lose the delightful and
vivifying experiences of “ divine ” love that began with the visit of the
Franciscan monk ? We shall be led to think that this loss was connected with
that of this, her first human messenger of divine love.
Mme Guyon had now entered upon the
last lap of her earthly course, the end of which was to be the so-called "
state of Mystical Death.” Already during the long period of depression and
despite her own misgivings, some progress had taken place. She had found less
and less pleasure in the satisfaction of her natural desires. For example, if
she ate something that she craved extremely, she found no enjoyment in it. She
was becoming indifferent, submissive, a passive instrument of the divine Will.
She tells us that her spirit unresistingly abandoned its own thoughts for the
thoughts of others. A gradual death of the natural man was taking place. If,
before she had sought " crosses ” until she was completely exhausted, now
she no longer sought them, nor did she desire them, but received whatever came
with an unperturbed spirit. " Formerly the soul saw that nature wished to
take part in what was happening, and then she felt it her duty to overcome the
desire ; but now nature had learned the lesson of passivity.” What was once
abhorrent to her, was no longer painful; she accomplished without complaining
the most menial duties : proud Mme Guyon sweeps out the chapel.
We must not, however, misunderstand
these statements her so-called indifference is not incompatible with
incoercible tenacity. We should note, for instance, with what persistence she
resisted the efforts of the Bishop of Geneva, and of several other persons in authority,
to connect her officially with the religious house in which she stayed at Gex,
and also her tenacity in maintaining a morally dangerous relation with Father
la Combe.
As to her claim of complete
sanctification, it is not borne out by her own account. The following passage,
which refers to a late period of her life, indicates the continuation of inner
division : " My God became so‘strict a master that he put me to death
whenever I resisted his smallest wish. O God, how clearly did I see then the
meaning of the words, ‘ Who has been able to oppose God and dwell in peace ? ’
” Nevertheless her theory is that the conflict between the natural and the
spiritual man has ended by the complete elimination of the former; man and God
have become one. This purification and unification of the self is a most
significant claim made by the mystics ; we shall have to give to this theory
the consideration it deserves.
As the divine ego became established
in Mme Guyon, the idea of a mission took form in her mind. At Gex she heard the
words : " Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my Church.” And
to Father la Combe came a voice assuring him that it was God’s intention to use
them both to help souls. It is in the conviction of divine favour and in the
consciousness of their moral superiority that the idea of a mission germinates
in the minds of the mystics. It is true that there is hardly any profession of
moral abjection that they are not willing to make ; nevertheless they realize
that the favour shown to them is granted to only a “ small number of chosen
souls.”
Mme Guyon now entered upon a period of
feverish activity. She preached moral perfection through passivity—the doctrine
known as quietisms. She healed bodies as well as souls. Her activity was
attended by curious manifestations of automatisms and by the elaboration of
strange doctrines. God gave her “ I know not what power to bring souls to
perfection. ’ ’ She discovered successively the power of verbal suggestion
and the superior method of communication in silence. On the occasion of
the illness of a sister in the convent, she found out ” what it was to command
by the Word and to obey by the same Word.” Soon, she noticed that the laying,
on of hands was not necessary for the cure of soul or body, the Word alone
sufficing. The miracle required only consent, or even only non-resistance, on
the part of the sufferer. It was in her relation with Father la Combe that she
learned the secret of " spiritual fruitfulness in silence.” The method is
easy; she used it systematically. " All those who are my true children
have, from the first, the tendency to remain silent while in my presence, and I
have likewise the instinct of communicating to them in silence what God gives
me for them.” Even the presence of the person was not necessary; the treatment
might take place at a distance. In the discovery of these methods, Mme Guyon
anticipated the modem treatments by suggestion and even some of the refinements
of the latter-day American mind-curists.
Her influence and reputation increased
apace. She felt herself invested with an “ apostolic state.” She had the gift
of discerning spirits and a miraculous power over souls. Visitors came to her
from near and far. Priests, peasants, and men of the world flocked to her in
the hope of being healed in body and soul. This popularity and success
continued until her return to Paris. Once in that great city, surrounded by
strangers and enemies, her gift lost something of its potency; persecutions
brought her thaumaturgic successes to an end.
To the pathological symptoms already
noted, there was added during the time of her triumphal public career,
automatic writing, a phenomenon of dissociation now well-known to
psychologists. She wrote automatically her most celebrated work, Les Torrents,
as well as the long and fanciful commentary on the books of the Bible. When she
took up her pen, she did not know what she was going to write ; “ thoughts rose
from the depth ” and did not pass through her head. When she had finished, she
remembered nothing of what she had written.
That she was in a condition of high
suggestibility is evident from what we have already related. Father la Combe
had only to speak to her or lay hands on her, and she was well. A persistent
cough disappeared at his command. One day she fell from her horse. When,
despite a bad (?) wound, she mounted again to finish the journey, she felt
herself pushed very forcibly towards the side of her fall; and to keep in the
saddle she had to throw herself with all her might in the opposite direction.
But in matters significant she is open to suggestions only in so far as they
are in agreement with her set purpose. Otherwise, she is both incoercible and
non-suggestible. This is an aspect of her suggestibility that must not be
forgotten in a comparison of her mental condition with that of ordinary highly
suggestible neuropathic or hysterical persons.
She was frequently ill. In 1683 she
had a severe attack with contractures, paralyses, hyperesthesias, etc., during
which she returned to “ the state of the child.” The idea of the Child Jesus,
to whom she had bound herself long before by a special vow, effected a
surprising transformation in her. Father la Combe would say to her, “ It is not
you, but a little child that I see1.”
1
See, regarding this and other strange phenomena in the life of Mme
Guyon and of other mystics, the chapter of this book on " Hysteria and
Psychasthenia.”
We cannot recount here the
persecutions to which she was subjected by the Church. Although from a worldly
point of view, it would have been greatly to her interest to give satisfaction
to those who accused her of heresy, she, whom we have just found so
suggestible, conceded nothing of her claims, nor of what she considered the
truth, even before the threats of the powerful bishop Bossuet.
2
. The Phases of Mme Guyon’s Life and their Causes.—The
course of Mme Guyon’s life, far from resembling that of a stream running
smoothly and steadily to its appointed goal, is marked by irregular flowing and
ebbing, which divide it in more or less clearly separated periods, themselves
broken up by oscillations of minor importance.
Divergent theories have been
elaborated to account for these oscillations in the life of the religious
mystics. Theologians see in them the mysterious operation of the grace of God
in conflict with the
human will or the devil. Recent
psychological students (Murisier, Godfemaux), pointing to similar oscillations
in persons quite free from
mystical and even from religious
ideas, assimilated them to physio
logical rhythms, characteristic of a
certain type of nervous instability. To later students (Delacroix, Hugel,
Hocking), the phenomenon appeared more complex, and they made room in their
explanations for influences of a moral order. In that, they were certainly right.
Nevertheless, none of these theories seem to us entirely adequate ; they
do not follow the facts closely enough. In what respect these later theories
are deficient, we shall try to say at the end of the individual studies in
which we are now engaged.
First Period (from the age of sixteen to eighteen).—The fife of Mme Guyon
since her unfortunate marriage may be divided into four main periods. The first
would cover the two years immediately following her marriage. These are years
of wretchedness, the causes for which have been set forth in the preceding
account of her life.
She was tormented by the natural
cravings of youth, altogether unsatisfied in her new condition. At the same
time as this frustration, the call to a holy life was heard again, louder and more
insistently than during her girlhood. She could gratify neither one nor the
other of these inclinations.
Second Period (from the age of eighteen to twenty-five).—The first period came
to an abrupt end with the visit of the Franciscan monk who bade her find God
within herself. For the first time she learned what it meant to be caught up in
the Lord’s embrace. “ I felt,” she writes, “a wound as delicious as it was
amorous, an unction which was felt so powerfully that I could scarcely open my
eyes or mouth.” Thus began a period of exaltation, marked by moments of
veritable ecstasy during which she possessed God “ in all His depth.” She
appeared to herself and to others as an altered being. This alteration
manifested itself in three directions : an enjoyment that often flamed up into
a burning, passionate love of God; the performance, without the former
reluctance and struggle, of her duties to her husband and to others ; moments
of obscuration of selfconsciousness, a sort of semi-somnambulism during which
someone (God, she thought) acted in her, for her. This period was also marked
by sharp pains of obscure origin. But because she regarded them as from God,
they had not a depressing effect. Through these pains she was to be purged from
the evil remaining in her nature. In order to hasten that purification, she
added to the divine pains, ruthless ascetic practices. There is reason to
surmise, however, that some of these practices were due to perversions of
sensibility; she found in them some direct sensuous satisfaction, possibly
merely a general stimulant.
This period passed gradually into the
next. The exaltation of the Second Period well sustained at the beginning, was
soon broken by moments of dryness and misery of increasing length, while
ecstasy and the moments of the blessed semi-somnambulism noted above became
less and less frequent. The struggles with the flesh and the devil increased in
number and painfulness. Not only had she to live with an old, invalid husband
whom she did not love, a spiteful and jealous mother-in-law, and impertinent
servants whom she was not permitted to dismiss ; but now, after an initial
period of complete and delightful surrender to God in love-communion, the pride
of the flesh asserted itself again. She was forever tom asunder between
cravings for human admiration and the stern voice of duty calling upon her to
sacrifice all to God. Under these circumstances it becomes possible to believe
her when she declares that she rejoiced when, at the age of twenty-two, she saw
her beauty destroyed by small pox. By the same disease, and at the same time,
she lost her first-bom. Two years later her father and another child died, and
not long after Mother Granger, who was “ after God her only consolation.” Her
health, always most precarious, seems now almost completely shattered.
Third Period (from the age of twenty-five to thirty-two).— Mme Guyon names the
year 1673 as marking the beginning of “ total privation.” In that state she
continued until 1680. But just as the preceding period was not entirely without
its dark moments, so the third was not without brief spells of peace and even
joy in divine union. Under the very natural desire to make things simple and
definite, she exaggerates, when she characterizes these years as a period of
total privation of God.
Her misery during these seven years
was worse than during the first period. She had now tasted the delights of
love-union and the moral unity it implied. The memory of that which she had
lost gave her sufferings a peculiar poignancy. It seemed to her that she no
longer loved God at all, and that she had returned to the state of the natural
man. Her appetite for a thousand things revived. Yet when she ate forbidden
things for which she had a violent desire, she found no pleasure in them.
It was during this period, at the age
of twenty-eight, after twelve years of married life, that she was at last
delivered from the conjugal yoke. But, if God relieved her from that cross, it
was only to give her heavier ones to bear. She regarded her two infants, one of
them a few months old, as crosses, because they made it impossible for her to
withdraw into a monastery. “ God,” she says, “ while freeing me, had
nevertheless bound me strongly in giving me two children immediately before the
death of my husband ” (XXII.) . Her health was unusually bad. Once she was at the point of death
during five or six weeks. When relative health finally returned, it did not
bring with it moral peace ; she continued at war with herself. It seems that
the more completely she thought herself cast away and the more she felt
inclinations to lead an ordinary life, the more violent were her yearnings for
God. She lost even her former pleasure in good works. At times she cherished
such a loathing for herself that she lost all appetite and from sheer
exhaustion had to take to her bed (XXV).
Fourth Period (from the age of thirty-two to her death).—It is under the
circumstances just related that she had occasion to write to Father la Combe
(1680). We have already seen how the sympathy they had felt for each other at
their first interview, nine years before, was immediately revived
and.soonglpwed into a warm love^_ In this spiritual union they continued their
earthly pilgrimage until parted by death. The suddenness of her recovery of God
when la Combe reappeared is as striking as her original discovery of God when
the Franciscan monk directed her to look within. Again now, as during the
second period, she enjoyed frequent and inexpressibly delicious ecstasies and
peaceful semi-somnambulisms. The struggle between the natural and the spiritual
man ceased, and she passed her days in an atmosphere of love, carrying out,
without opposition, the will of her divine Lover.
If one may regard the years between
1680 and her death, in 1717, as constituting a single period, it is not because
of entire homogeneity. At first and for several years she was, on the whole and
despite marked bodily weakness and disease, in a condition of great exaltation.
The love-ecstasies were frequent, as were also automatisms of various kinds and
moments of semi-somnambulism. It was also during these years that she suffered
the most severe hysterical attack of which she has left any record ; of it she
says, “ Never was disease more extraordinary or longer in its excess.”
We know extremely little concerning
her condition during the last thirty years of her life. We may say, however,
that gradually the symptoms of nervous instability seem to have abated ; and,
with the advent of_age, the love-raptures were replaced_by a more ordinary
communion with God. It is probable that she reached a condition of comparative
equilibrium.
These four periods are of very unequal
duration and the third has no clearly marked starting-point. That which
separates them most conspicuously is, perhaps, the presence or absence of
raptures. There are none at all in the first period. The beginning of the
second is determined by the first ecstatic experience. For a time frequent and
intense, the ecstasies gradually diminish ; and from the third period they are
almost entirely absent. Their reappearance with renewed energy and frequency in
connexion with the return of Father la Combe serves to mark the beginning of
the fourth period. Then again they undergo a gradual, if slow decline.
The passage from one period to the
next is characterized also by changes in the dominant affective tone that
correspond fairly exactly to the changes in the frequency of the ecstasies.
When they are numerous, the dominant tone is pleasurable and optimistic ; in
their absence it is the opposite. The production of the ecstasies and the
general affective tone have, as we shall see, a common cause.
With ecstasy and buoyancy is
associated also the dominance of the godward tendencies. The other impulses no
longer manifest themselves or else are easily repressed; while, with the
disappearance of ecstasy and the appearance of depression, the evil tendencies
reassert themselves and the subject returns to a condition of painful and
exhausting inner struggle.
Finally, a tendency to dissociation
manifests itself markedly during the periods of exaltation. Semi-trances and
automatisms are frequent, and, so far at least as the information in our
possession goes, it is during these periods that the more serious attacks of hysteria
take place.
We might have divided the fourth
period in two and made of its latter part a fifth period characterized by her
activity as missionary, healer, and reformer. But this would have been to
separate a part of her life from the rest according to a trait totally
different from those we have used in making four periods. Were we to use that
trait as a means of division, her life could be divided into two periods only :
the years of introversion, that is, of exclusive concern with her own self,
during which she was seeking to make herself fit for union with God ; and the
years of extraversion, or of her public ministry, a period that could not open
until she had undergone the necessary preparation and attained a condition
which made it possible for her to regard herself as an instrument of the divine
Will.
But when one speaks of periodicity in
the life of the mystics, one does not mean something as common-place as the
preparation and the realization phases that divide in two the life of almost
everyone. The mystics are in no way remarkable in that respect. They might, it
is true, have lacked the ambition and energy that made of them at a given
moment, social forces, and thus have remained to the end in the preparatory or
introversion stage. The probability is that in that case we should never have
heard of them. They became great among mystics because, as we have already
said, they were personalities remarkable By the energy of their
will-to-happiness- and-distinction. Their doctrine of humility, self-surrender
and passivity should not blind us to the presence in them of a tremendous
energy of self-affirmation. They aim at nothing short of divine perfection and
power and, as soon as they have conquered social freedom and won divine
partnership, they set out into the world to work in it the divine Will of which
they have become, as it were, official instruments.
We conclude, then, that frequent
raptures, persistent exaltation, the dominance of the tendencies in accordance
with the divine Will, and a proneness to mental dissociation, make up a complex
characteristic of two of the periods ; while the total or partial absence of
these traits marks the two others. These four periods were not, however,
homogeneous throughout their duration; they were diversified by many irregular
oscillations of affective tone and energy-level. The periods of exaltation (the
second and the fourth), for instance, were not without moments of flatness and
even of depression. Similarly, the two periods of depression were broken by
briefer spaces of exaltation.
Causes and occasions of the
alternating changes.—Both
physiological and psychical causes are to be looked for. It is enough to point
to the obvious effects of bad digestion and of alcoholic intoxication to remind
everyone of the profound influence exercised on consciousness by physiological
factors. Certain forms of insanity, characterized by alternating phases of
exaltation and depression, illustrate strikingly how totally independent of
moral causes oscillations involving the whole individual may be. Recently
acquired knowledge about the action of internal secretions and of drugs upon
the psychical life has added much definiteness to our understanding of the role
played by mere chemical agents in altering the moral self.
We are, therefore, prepared to admit
that certain of the psychical alterations we have described may be of purely
organic origin, whereas others may be determined by psychical factors, and
still others by factors of both classes1. An exclusively
physiological cause must be ascribed, for instance, to the brief exaltation
period which coincided with Mme Guyon’s fourth pregnancy. From being depressed,
dissatisfied with herself, obsessed with her faults, deprived of the enjoyment
of divine love, she became self-confident, able to overcome or at least to
disregard her defects, and almost constantly conscious of an overpowering love.
That pregnancy may transform the affective state and bring relief from
neurasthenic disorders is well known to physicians. Pierre Janet states that more
than thirty times he has observed a transformation in his patients at about the
fourth month of pregnancy. He records that their obsessions disappeared and
adds, “ It is well known that the functions of circulation, respiration,
nutrition are exalted in that condition, and it is not surprising that a mental
disorder that is in relation with cerebral depressions should be favourably
influenced by that exaltation .”
If, as Janet suggests, the improvement
results from increased activity of the great vital functions, why does not
every pregnancy produce that improvement
? Because pregnancy
involves other factors also. Painful physiological disorders may set in ; and
moral causes may be added; for instance, the dislike of having a child. In
cases of illegitimate motherhood, the period designated by Janet as one of
increased vitality may be one of excruciating torments.
In such cases, dread may override the
main physiological effect*. In normal conditions, however, the psychical
factors make for happiness, and one may very well conceive of a change similar
to that in Mme Guyon being due to the mother's happy expectation. But, in the
case under discussion, there was no joyful anticipation. We know that Mme Guyon
fulfilled grudgingly her duty as a wife and mother. Her children were “ crosses
” from which she delivered , herself as soon as possible. Her euphoric
condition must, therefore, /A' have been due to physiological factors.
If physiological causes alone brought
about exaltation during Mme Guyon’s fourth pregnancy, it was quite otherwise
with the brief period of exaltation that followed the dedication of her private
chapel. Here, as far as we know, psychical causes and no others determined the
change. In a person of her temperament, beliefs, and ecstatic habit, the
production of exaltation under the circumstances attending the dedication of a
private chapel, is not greatly surprising. To that passionate woman the
erection of an altar to her Heavenly Bridegroom at her very door was an
inflammatory event.
* * *
The characteristics of the first period are accounted for
sufficiently by Mme Guyon’s temperament, the tendencies and desires of her
early years, and the circumstances of her married life. This delicate,
beautiful and proud girl divided from her childhood between the World and God,
found herself condemned to live with a man twice her age and in ill-health,
whom she did not love. The presencejn the home of the mother4n_-law_ completed
her misfortuneT^One does not wonder that under these circumstances the Godward
tendencies, previously awakened in her, reaffirmed themselves, and that she
remembered the saints who had found in God what earth had ■> —— - -
H ——. - . ——
refused them. Her poor health was
aggravated by child-bearing ; two undesired children were born to her before
the completion of her nineteenth year. Little imagination is required to
conceive the restless, spasmodic yearnings of this poor woman towards the peace
and the love offered by her religion. She sought peace in prayerful meditation
practised “ quite punctually ” twice a day; but found only momentary
resignation. Youth would not be denied.
We are to regard her as already a very
good young woman ; she did not curl her hair, “ or very little,” did not powder
her face, and looked at herself “ very little in the mirror ” (VII).
Nevertheless
1 The action of fear upon the organism is, of course, to be
understood physiologically. See the chapter on fear in W. B. Cannon's Bodily
Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear and Rage, New York and London, 1915.
she was
engaged in an ever-recurring struggle against commonplace manifestations of
pride and vanity.
When the Franciscan monk visited her,
she was thus a divided and profoundly unhappy soul. We are told that he
produced upon her a deep impression. He did more than that : his advice to seek
God within led to the kindling-of a sudden flame of love, experienced in a
trance. The subject of that love was, as far as she understood herself, God or
Jesus—no sharp distinction is made between them. The role played by the monk
is, however, too important to be disregarded. We are, it seems, justified in
thinking that he kindled the divine love and was instrumental in the production
of the first love-ecstasy. (Anyone in doubt on this point should re-read the
account of the influence upon her of Father la Combe.) In her own eyes and in
those of persons about her, Mme Guyon is transformed. It was not a conversion
in the sense of a sudden deliverance from bondage to gross evil habits ; it was
rather the kind of transformation that would have come had she suddenly fallen
in love with her husband. She compares what happened to her to the application
of a balm that healed instantly all her wounds. The same thing would have taken
place had she lost her heart to her husband ; she would no longer have been
plagued by more or less useless struggles with the looking-glass and the extent
of her d collets ; nor would she have been made miserable by home duties
; and still less would her selfesteem have smarted from neglect and lack of
appreciation. Selfconfidence and happiness would have made of her an active,
effective and happy wife and mother. It was, however, not the husband but
Christ who made her very flesh tingle with love. At one magic stroke, the
despised Cinderella became the bride of the King of Heaven. All her starved
instincts were gratified. What mattered now slights, repellant home tasks,
bodily ailments ; what mattered even rejection by man and isolation ? All these
things had become as nothing in the presence of one great, overpowering fact:
she loved and was loved by God Himself. A wave of new life reinforced all the
impulses and purposes that she regarded as approved of God ; for the love of
God when really felt carries with it the triumph of his Will. There is no
longer any active suppression of the contrary tendencies ; the energies are,
for the time being, drained in the Godward direction.
In short, then, we say that because a
genuine love had awakened in her, Mme Guyon passed from a condition of
self-division, dejection, and purposelessness to one of moral unity, buoyancy,
and activity. No one at all familiar with the miracles of profane love or with
the amazing role often played by the sympathetic and virile physician who
practises among neglected women, psychopathic or otherwise, will wonder at this
instance of the effect of love.
The only part of this experience that
need surprise is the production of ecstatic love trances. As to that, the only
thing we need say now is that her temperament and the circumstances in which
she found herself were highly favourable to their production. She knew from her
readings and from oral reports that such things were possible ; she desired the
event and sought its production by conforming to certain practical directions.
Moreover, she did not live a. normal sexdifeshe was frigid with her husband.
Since her marriage, two years had elapsed, two years of yearning after divine
love.
For a considerable time at the
beginning of this second period Mme Guyon walked on clouds of glory and passed
much of her time in a peculiar absent-minded condition. The trials of her
married life seemed insignificant; she even took pleasure in menial tasks and
in multiplying sources of physical suffering ; trials, she thought, would
purify her soul as fire purifies gold, and her fortitude would show how great
was her devotion to the Heavenly Bridegroom.
But this extravagant happiness
gradually came to an end; the frequency and the intensity of the ecstasies
decreased and then disappeared almost entirely, while the natural man became as
obstreperous as ever. A long period of dryness, of complete privation from
divine joy, set in.
How is this withdrawal of God to be
accounted for ? Several causes present themselves to the mind; one only,
however, do we know to have existed, and that one seems in itself sufficient as
an explanation of the passage from the second to the third period. Carnal
desires might have drawn her away from God ; the devil, with whom she had only
a distant acquaintance, might have taken possession of her. But nothing in the
record would justify that hypothesis. No moral deterioration had taken place
during these years of depression. On the contrary, she appeared to have made
progress toward the realization of the “ death of the senses,” an expression
meaning a condition in which they are “ without appetite as without repugnance
” (XII). No suffering that promised to further that end seemed to have been too
great for her to endure. She was already in disfavour when she finally
prevailed upon herself and continued “ ever after ” to cover her throat
entirely with a handkerchief when going out in company, although she was “ the
only one so fixed up ” (XIV). Decolletage had been one of the battlegrounds
of the natural against the spiritual man. This belated sacrifice was, however,
hardly necessary at that time; for, shortly
94 PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM after,
small pox destroyed the beauty, that was keeping alive that most tenacious of
cravings, the.love of admiration. If she felt again with renewed sharpness the
goad of pride and the misery of her loveless married life, she was not aware
of having yielded to temptation.
May we suppose that the love-trances
disappeared because of a return to a more normal physiological condition ? This
would involve the assumption that health runs counter to the unusual phenomenon
regarded by the mystics as union with a God of love. That assumption also is
unsupported by facts. What we know about her health between 1666 and 1673 does
not indicate an improvement. Her behaviour during that period of extravagant
happiness was so strange and uncomfortable for those who lived with her, that
the petty home persecutions became increasingly bitter. Caring for ought but
the solitary enjoyment of God, she managed to keep herself much of the time in
a condition that looked like imbecility ; the work she was doing would fall
from her hands ; she would sit in company without seeing what was going on. She
was furthermore often sick ; her life seemed to hang on a thread. The death of
her husband, in 1676, did not restore her to health or happiness ; for four
years longer she continued without God.
If it was not return to physiological
health that lost her the entrancing communion with God, one might suppose that
the loss was the result of increasingly bad health. This conjecture again is
not altogether supported by the facts known to us. Her worse hysterical attack
coincided with the exaltation at the beginning of the fourth period. Moreover,
the conjecture appears superfluous in the presence of an event in itself
sufficient to explain a return, to the distressing condition which preceded the
advent of the Franciscan monk. That fateful event is the passing, out of her
life of that very .monk. He had become her confessor. We do not know how long
that happy relation lasted, nor why it ended. Mme Guyon is much too discreet in
her report of her relation with him. We know only that in 1672, or shortly
before, a certain M. Bertot had become her director. We know furthermore that
they never became friends. She could not “ open ” herself to him. The lack of
understanding between them went so far that, according to her own testimony,
she never spoke to him of the favours she had received from above. He pressed
upon her directions that she could not or would not follow. She tried to obey
him, but “ found it entirely impossible.” One may surmise that he did not
regard her mystical theories and practices favourably. However that may be,
they did not get along together. At a certain juncture, he even dismissed her,
probably because she refused
to follow his directions. Later on he
took her back but without better results. He was “ of little use ” to her,
although she yearned desperately for someone upon whom to lean.
Our surmise is, then, that the
Franciscan monk to whom, “ after God,” she says she owed her love-ecstacies,
took them away with him, together with a moral support they and his own
presence provided. This opinion is confirmed in an almost irrefutable manner by
what happened when Father la Combe, in his turn, appeared upon the scene. Then
a new period of exaltation (fourth period) opened. We know that they had met
many years before and had felt in sympathy with each other. His coming into her
life in 1680 determined almost instantaneously overpowering love-ecstasies.
She lost so completely her heart and head that she was hardly able to separate
the Father from God. Thanks to his encouragement and support this eager soul,
in the prime of life (thirty-two years old), whose life-energies had been
baulked for so long could now throw herself headlong into the holy life as she
had conceived it.
Her dependence upon the Father appears
conspicuously, some would say shockingly, in her pursuit of him. At one time
she appeared suddenly at Verceil where he was. She relates naively that the
Father was “ strangely annoyed ” at her arrival. As a matter of fact, evil
rumours were already abroad, and he was afraid for their reputation.
Nevertheless, she made a prolonged stay. When at last she left for Paris she
was not alone, the Father accompanied her the whole way, by order, she says,
of one of his superiors!
The first part of the fourth period
was marked by striking manifestations of various forms of dissociation, by
automatisms, and high suggestibility, as well as by love-ecstasies. It is
during these years that took place the most violent disorders of an hysterial
nature or semblance of which she has left any record.
The absence of true periodicity.-—The information contained in the preceding pages makes it quite
impossible to regard the four periods into which Mme Guyon’s life divides
itself as the expression of any natural rhythm. The first was due to a
combination of complex physiological and psychical causes ; on the one hand,
her temperament, her education, and mainly, perhaps, the mystical ideal
implanted in her very early in life ; and, on the other, her abnormal moral and
physiological conjugal relation. The third period was in substance a return to
the situation characteristic of the first; it was due to the disappearance of
that which had for a season (the second period) lifted her out of the misery of
moral rejection and isolation into the fulness of a glorious love.
The beginning of the two periods of
exaltation (the second and fourth) was occasioned, according to our
explanation, by circumstances entirely external to herself, namely the coming
into her life in one instance of the Franciscan monk and in the other of Father
la Combe. One may wonder whether, in the absence of these two men, she would
have spent her whole life in the darkness of the first and third periods. This
question gives us the opportunity of stating formally what has been throughout
implied ; namely that Mme Guyon’s exaltations, as well.as her depressions,
were due primarily, to what she was, and only secondarily to outside
influences. These two men were little more than stimuli that brought out
prepared responses or sparks that set fire to combustible material. It cannot
be said that in their absence no other men could have taken their places, nor
that a solution independent of the assistance of particular human individuals
was impossible. It remains, however, that the most remarkable aspje.ct_pf
the "dealings of God” with Mme Guyon is thy role played by these
two persons, of the male sex. We shall see in the next chapter
that the love they kindled was no ordinary platonic love.
3. Did Mme Guyon attain her ethical
goal ?—Two of her fundamental cravings were, undoubtedly gratified during
the periods of exaltation : her_need for tenderness and^for recognition—
But what of her struggle for the suppression of the natural man, the absorption
of her will into the universal, divine Will ? According to her understanding of
it, every scene in the divinely guided drama of which she was the centre found
its meaning in progress toward that goal1. A judgment passed upon
the social value of the great Christian mystics would have to be based
primarily upon their conception of the divine Will, the contribution they have
made to methods of realizing it, and the extent to which they themselves have
done so.
Hugel draws a careful picture of the
character of the unregenerated Catherine of Genoa—a picture which would need
little if any retouching to be also that of Mme Guyon and of Santa Theresa:
“ A great self-engrossment of a
downrightly selfish kind ; a grouping of all things round such a self adoring Ego;
a noiseless but determined elimination from her fife and memory of all that
would not or could not, then and there, be drawn and woven into
1 It is interesting to observe how relatively insignificant in Mme
Guyon's life was the influence of the idea of heavenly salvation. She, of
course, believed in heaven and hell but no deferred heaven would do for her ;
she wanted salvation here and now in the form of a fulfilment of the dominant
requirements of her nature.
the organism and functioning of this
immensely self-seeking, infinitely woundable and wounded, endlessly
self-doctoring ‘ I ’ and ' me ’; all this was certainly to be found, in strong
tendency at least, in the untrained parts and periods of her character and life1.”
We are not sufficiently well informed
to be able to say how far the saint changed in the course of her intimacy with
God. In the case of Mme Guyon we can speak both as to the degree of completion
of the union of her will with the divine Will, as she conceived of it, and as
to the relation of the exaltation periods to her moral progress. Was it during
and in consequence of the ecstasies that the lower, egoistic, self-centred
impulses disappeared ; and was that disappearance final ?
At the beginning of the two periods of
exaltation, and as long as they were at their height, she was indifferent to
the admiration as well as to the ill-will and criticism of men. But this lofty
detachment, appearing as the accompaniment of a peculiar loverelation with
God, may hardly be taken as a sign of a character transformation, of a genuine
increase in altruism and self-control. How could one who had become the
favourite of the most High be disturbed by withheld human admiration ? How easy
for the bride of the Almighty to bear slights and sneers ; how impossible for
her to be jealous of a mother-in-law!
In other respects her conduct during
the first exaltation period raises grave doubts. When her husband tried to
limit the length of her prayers by not permitting her to get up at four but
only at seven o’clock in the morning to perform her religious duties, she
secretly defeated his purpose by doing her devotions on her knees, in bed. And
when he forbade her to go to mass as often as she desired, she devised ways of
attending without his knowledge. The Lord made himself her accomplice in these
deceptions; he worked miracles in her behalf ; he held back the rain and kept
her husband asleep in the morning so that she might not be discovered. She
corresponded secretly with Mother Granger. Thus, for many years of
inexpressively^ sweet converse with God, _she lived^ on earth in an
atmpsplierq'of concealment and deception. Nothing seemed to have been further
from her thoughts than to seek normal, honest relationship with her family and
society by making the sacrifice of her extravagant devotions. The divine Will
never demanded renouncement of ecstatic love-enjoyment in order that she might
comply with the wishes of her family, turn her attention to her children, and
perform whole-heartedly her duties of mother and wife.
i
Friedrich von Hugel, The Mystical Element of Religion, vol. II, p. 37.
The divine honeymoon passed,
restlessness and discontent returned. When out of the divine embrace, she spent
her time grieving for the loss of it, unable to exist without that incomparable
enjoyment (XIII). Virtue, so easy to practise before, demanded now the most
painful effort. During the period of complete “ dryness,” when the ecstasies
had ceased, she continued to yearn after God without feeling His love. Her
heart, formerly occupied with God alone, was now filled chiefly with worldly
concerns (XXI). Her appetite for a thousand things came to life again. When at
mass, she was inattentive. In order to punish herself she would go to a second
mass and then to a third. “ But,” she writes, “ it was always worse. My eyes
which formerly closed of themselves, in spite of myself, would now remain open,
and I was able neither to keep them closed nor to withdraw within myself for a
single moment ” (XXI).
The affirmation that her inclination
to all evils was irresistible (XXIII), must, however, be interpreted in the
light of utterances such as this : ‘‘I had an inclination to all sins, without,
however, committing them ; and these inclinations seemed in my mind to be
realities, because I felt my heart filled with worldly concerns ” (XXIII). As
far as there is backsliding during this long period of depression, it amounts
merely to a return of the impulses of the natural man and not to a yielding to
them. The worldly desires that had for a time ceased to manifest themselves,
because the root instincts of her nature were satisfied to repletion by God’s
recognition and love of her, now again afflict her.
When Father la Combe appeared on the
scene everything changed once more as by magic. Again love freed her from
promptings against which she had been fighting. Her husband was now dead, and
the young children whom God had added to her troubles, were growing up. She
found it possible to fulfill her long-cherished desire ; leaving her only
remaining son behind and taking along her five-year- old daughter, she entered
a religious house. It is not without pain that she parted from her son, but
(her own words deserve quotation) “ the confidence I had in the Holy Virgin to
whom I had devoted him, and whom I regarded as his mother, quieted all my displeasure.”
Of the death of her youngest child from small-pox, she writes : “ The spirit of
sacrifice possessed me so strongly that although I loved him tenderly, I never
shed a tear when I learned of his death.” And of the loss of a daughter and of
her father, she says, “ My heart was not shaken ” ; “I mourned no more the
daughter than the father.” The sufferings of a daughter placed in a convent
brought out the only sign we have noted in her Life of real parental
affection and of remorse for non-fulfilment of duty.
If we compare Mme Guyon’s state as it
appears at the beginning of the first exaltation period or a few years after,
when “ dryness ” was setting in, with her condition about ten years later when
she entered the monastic life, or twenty years later when in the middle of her
great missionary activity, we find no clear evidence of important moral
improvement. At the earlier of these last two dates, despite her teaching on
mortification, she refused to bear the “ crosses ” that had come to her in the
course of a grudging discharge of conjugal duties. Enticed by the prospect of
freedom for her devotions, she parts from her young children. And despite her
ceaseless discourses about the death of the natural man, not even under risk of
ruining his reputation is she able to resist the attraction of Father la Combe.
Regarding her later condition one
might point, in support of an accusation of uncurbed self-will and pride, to
her stubborn refusal to yield to the authority of the Church in the controversy
about quietism ; to her belief in her possession of marvellous gifts, that, for
instance, of discerning without external signs what passed in men’s hearts and
minds ; and to the extravagant dream of a great religious order of quietists,
of which Fenelon should be the General, and she, by the grace of God, the
inspiring and directing power1. One might also draw attention to
many of the petty incidents she thought it advisable to record in her Autobiography—a
work written when she thought herself emptied of the natural man. In the
account of her childhood, we find this passage : “ It happened that the Queen
of England came to our house while I was present. My father told the confessor
of the Queen that if she wanted to enjoy herself she should talk with me and
ask me questions. He asked me several questions, and some very difficult ones.
I answered them with so much a propos that he took me to the Queen ”
(III). Poor Mme Guyon had no more been able to do away with her little proud
self than to part with her own shadow ! In this instance as in a host of others
she displayed her cleverness for the admiration of the whole world, not only
when she was a child, but when in old age she wrote down her biography.
There is, however, one important
achievement to set down in an account of her moral development. Before her
marriage, she not only felt urged by evil promptings but she identified herself
with them. From the advent of the first exaltation period, whenever she
recognized the natural man, she steadfastly disowned it and identified herself
exclusively with the godward tendencies; the others no longer belonged to her.
This achievement took place as early as her 1 See her letters to
Fenelon in Finelon and Mme Guyon, by Maurice Masson. first ecstatic
union, when she was but nineteen years old. It was her real conversion, her
turning to God.
Santa Theresa (1515-1582)
1. Biographical1-.—A
similarity of temperament and of education make moral replicas of Suzo, St
Catherine of Genoa, Mme Guyon and Santa Theresa. They all pursued, and by the
same method, the satisfaction of the same fundamental cravings.
The judgment of the Church upon Santa
Theresa is, according to Bouix, her translator, that “ even at the time of her
greatest waywardness, she was a model of virtue.j She, herself, could say, “
There was in my nature a happy inclination to virtue ” ; “I have never felt the
slightest attraction for anything that might have withered my innocence,
because I held in invincible horror all things dishonest.” When, nevertheless,
she accuses herself, as other mystics also have done, of being the blackest
creature alive, deserving " to live in hell with the devils,” we must
remember that we are dealing with persons given to extravagances and passing
readily, in their writings as in their lives, from one extreme to another; and
that they, especially Santa Theresa, .wrote their biographies in order to
magnify the goodness and the power of the Lord. It will not betray any
uncharitableness on our part if we add that that is a way of vicariously setting
forth their own.
Her repeated affirmation that she was
cherished “ wherever she went,” need not, however, be discounted. As a child
she was happy at home and, in the convents and monasteries where from the age
of eighteen she passed her years, she was loved and admired. Her life, despite
the impression that the Autobiography may leave, ran on the whole a
fairly even course. Its ups and downs were not so pronounced as in the case of
Mme Guyon.
She belonged to a family where
refigion was practised. When still a mere child, she built a hermitage in the
garden and indulged
1 We have used the French translation by Marcel Bouix of the
Saint’s Autobiography, Paris, 1857. The roman figures, in parentheses
after the quotations, refer to chapters of that book.
The Autobiography,
or the Life, was not all written at the same time. The first twenty-two
chapters date from 1562. She was then forty-seven years of age. The last
eighteen chapters were added between 1563 and 1566.
The Book of Foundations
continues the Life, and relates in particular her activity as founder of
monasteries. It was written in 1567.
The Interior Castle or the Castle
of the Soul dates from 1572.
There are, in addition, three volumes
of letters, also translated by Marcel Bouix.
An excellent critical study of Santa
Theresa’s life may be found in the Etudes d'Histoire et de Psychologie du
Mysticisme, by Henri Delacroix, Paris, 1908.
with her numerous brothers in dreams
of pious heroism. When she was twelve years old, her mother died. With the
advent of womanhood her life took for a while the usual direction. She found
pleasure in dresses and ornaments, enjoyed the company of cousins of the
opposite sex, and behaved sufficiently like ordinary young people to deserve,
she thinks, the accusation of frivolity. In order to give another direction to
her thoughts, her father placed her at the age of sixteen in a convent where
she soon found life enjoyable. A year and a half later a serious illness
brought her home and led to the first religious crisis of her adolescence. It
was not on a very high spiritual level. She tells us that servile fear, more
than love, impelled her to the religious life. The question was, shall it be
heaven or hell ? (HI). For three months she underwent a severe struggle, and
then, against the determined will of her father, she entered the convent of the
Incarnation at Avila. She was eighteen years old. In this convent she remained
as sister for twenty-five years and subsequently ruled it as prioress.
She was now at peace, happy to be
safe, with Jesus as Bridegroom. " The first year was spent in purity,
almost without giving any offence to the Lord (IV). But ill-health soon
compelled her to travel in search of a cure. It is during that time (in 1535),
after a sustained effort of nine months’ duration, that she discovered the
delights and comforts of prison1. She owed the discovery to the Third
Abecedaire of Franpois de Osuna, lent her by an uncle. For a while her
illness grew worse and her life was despaired of. In 1537, she suffered a
severe attack of something that seems very much like hysteria (VI)2.
In the same year, she returned to the convent, weak and partially paralysed ;
but, thanks to St Joseph, she soon recovered the full use of her limbs.
The rule of the convent, in which she
had found protection against a threat of perdition, was not severe. The sisters
enjoyed considerable freedom of relation with the outside world, so that God
was neglected and Theresa’s love of worldly intercourse and friendship was
largely gratified. In the seventh and eighth chapters of the Life, there
is drawn a picture of her moral condition which, she thinks, " will wither
the soul of all her readers ” : “ During almost twenty years I crossed a sea
full of storms and tempests. I fell, I rose, and fell again. ... I did not
enjoy God, and I found no pleasure
1
She defines " orison ” as " an intimate, friendly
intercourse with God, in which the soul expresses her love freely to Him who
loves her ” (VIII). It^ does not involve a trance. Under orison, she includes
only the first degrees of the mystical Ascent of the Soul to God.
2
For a study of her illnesses, see the chapter on “ Hysteria and
Neurasthenia.’’
in the world.” “J wanted, it seems, to
combine these two opposites : spiritual life with its delights, and the life of
the senses with its pleasures.” For a while ashamed of approaching God, she
gives up orison entirely and limits herself to the vocal prayers prescribed by
the rule. She adds, “ I must, nevertheless, admit that during these years there
were months and even one entire year of generous faithfulness (fidelite
genereuse)1. Giving myself up to orison, I avoided with the
greatest care the least fault and I took serious precautions against giving
offence to the Lord ” (VIII).
Taken as a whole Theresa’s account
would show that during these twenty years of ups and downs, she lived quite up
to what was expected of her, even by her confessors ; and that she did not
suffer very great inner qualms. There were not in her case the causes of
wracking misery present in the life of the unhappily married Mme Guyon.
Throughout her adolescence, and at
least up to her forty-third year, she continued in that condition, never
conforming completely to that which she felt God required of her. What she
reproached herself for was mainly the pleasure she found in the admiration of
her fellowmen. There was in particular a visitor, precious beyond all others.
Who he or she was, she does not say. Perhaps the worst of the misdeeds she
reports is letting her father believe that she had given up orison because of
ill-health. But that deception does not seem to have troubled her.
_ In 1555 two events stirred her to
the depth and led her one step nearer to the goal. The first was the sight of a
statue of the Saviour covered with wounds. “ The wounds of the Divine Master
seemed so recent; it was a representation so moving and so vivid of that which
He had endured for us that, seeing Him in that condition, I was completely
unnerved ” (IX). She fell on her knees, shed torrents of tears and begged Him
for strength never to offend Him again. Thanks to the help of St Madeleine, she
did not cease from that day to make “ rapid progress in the inner life ” (IX).
The second memorable event was the
reading of the Confessions of St Augustine. It produced in her a tempest
similar to the one just described. She “was overpowered by the anguish of a
most bitter sorrow.” From that moment she sought God more diligently and became
aware of a desire to remain longer with Him in orison and to keep away from the
causes of her dissipations.
In spite of their intensity, these
experiences of her fortieth year do not divide her life in two parts widely
separated ; they mark no more than steps forward towards the goal she had set
for herself
1 She refers probably to the first year of her monastic life.
long ago when she resolved to withdraw
from the world. When she refers to the period preceding these events as “ her
own life,” and the one following them as “ the life of God ” in her (XXII), she
greatly exaggerates. Almost in the same breath she admits that she is still
attached to the World by interests which, though not very bad in themselves,
nevertheless compromise the progress accomplished (XXIII). One sacrifice she
could not yet make : “It was the giving up of certain friendships, very
innocent in themselves, but for which I cared much ” (XXIV). One may well
suspect an attachment to a person of the opposite sex, more profound than she
admits, deeper perhaps than she knew.
The help
of St Madeleine being insufficient to break her chains completely, she sought
the added guidance of a saintly man. He also proved inadequate. Then God
himself came again to her assistance, in a wonderful manner : he granted her a
rapture (ravissement, i.e., ascent to the fourth degree in her scheme of
the Ascent of the Soul), the first she had ever experienced, and said to her :
“ I do not want you any longer to converse with men but only with angels.”
Fear, which at first had seized upon her as life seemed to withdraw, vanished
before the assurance of God's Love. After this new favour she thought herself
altogether transformed : “ From the day when God in one moment changed entirely
my heart, my resolution to give up everything for His sake became unshakable ”
(XXIV). This statement should not be construed as signifying that self-regard
and pride never again asserted themselves and led her astray, but only that she
gave up the relations that had been the source of many of her shortcomings. In
order to estimate correctly the potency of the alleged divine intervention, one
should recall that Theresa had reached her forty-third year. At that age,
particularly in sunny Spain where women bloom early, little remains of the
pride of the flesh ;/pride, however, may have found refuge elsewhere.
- Until this momentous rapture the
Spanish saint had known only the first three of the mystical states described
in the Autobiography, and visions and auditions had been extremely rare
when compared with their frequency afterwards. The complete surrender of her to
God’s will, following upon her total possession by him in ecstasy, marked the
beginning of the period of the great love-trances, of the monitory and
premonitory visions and voices, and of persistent external activity in the
foundation of reform monasteries.
The most peaceful years of her life
were those spent in the newly-established monastery of St. Joseph ; never
before or since, did she enjoy " so much sweetness and repose.” And yet
she was not altogether contented. Now that inner conflicts had ceased, that she
was a unified soul possessing in safety God’s favour and trust, she was
thinking of new worlds to conquer : “I seemed like a person who guards a great
treasure and desires to share it with all the world, but whose hands are bound
to prevent him from distributing it too generously. For my soul was as if thus
bound, and the great blessings which God had given me seemed ill-used, shut up
within me1.”
An authorization was obtained, and she
entered into an indefatigable activity as a founder of monasteries with a
stricter rule than the one then common in Spain. In the face of violent attacks
from within her own order, she founded altogether thirty-two monasteries. In
that work she demonstrated rare abilities as an organizer, manager and
diplomat. During these years, even more than before, she was guided and
supported by automatisms, usually in the form of voices.
* * *
2. The Phases of Santa Theresa’s
Life.—Three dates would claim the attention of anyone wishing to divide
Theresa’s life into periods : her decision in 1533 to embrace the monastic
life, the two memorable events of 1555 described above, and the first rapture
in 1558.
The first period would then extend to
her entrance in the convent of the Incarnation at Avila where she took the
veil. Her motives in consecrating herself to God were, as we know, mainly to
secure her heavenly salvation. Convent life, such as it existed in many places
in Spain, was not without its own charm even for those who craved social
intercourse Taking the veil did not mean burying oneself alive.
The second period would last from
1533, for about twenty-two years, and end with the moving incidents that led to
the making of new resolutions of complete surrender to God. It was not a
homogenous period. It began with a year of great faithfulness to the Lord.
Then, she again heard and yielded to the call of the World. At various times
she reined herself in and remained for a space closer to God.
One might be tempted to make a
separate period of the first year of her monastic life, when, under the impetus
of a fresh decision to lead a holy life, of the impressive ceremonies through
which she had just passed, and of the new surroundings into which she had come,
she gave herself up whole-heartedly to the service of God. But, even then, she
was not altogether faithful. And there were later on brief periods of probably
equal faithfulness which it would be impossible to date.
1 Livre des Fondations, chap. I.
From 1555 to 1558 might be regarded as
a third period, although no very marked changes distinguished these years from
the preceding.
In 1558, a definite step forward took
place : she at last succeeded in breaking entirely with worldly friendships.
This event might serve to date the beginning of a fourth and last period.
The events used in order to divide
Santa Theresa's life in periods are mere incidents in a development determined
essentially but not exclusively by a logical inner growth. There is no evidence
in support of the opinion that she would not have attained an equal degree of
self-renunciation and faithfulness to God in the absence of the sight of the
statue of Christ with the wounds and of the reading of St Augustine. It is that
which was already passing in her that gave to these incidents their
significance. Since the moment of their appearance depended upon chance events,
these periods do not, any more than those of Mme Guyon, indicate any natural
rhythm. Her forward course traced an irregular zigzag line, the exact turning
points of which' were determined by accidental, external circumstances.
* * *
Divide her life as you may choose,
Santa Theresa’s development was a fairly regular one. There is no particular
moment at which one may say that a profound moral transformation took place.
Her determination to enter the holy life did not involve a moral rebirth. The
long second period, extending to 1555, was one of moderate oscillations.
Despite certain statements about the tortures she endured during these years
because of unfaithfulness—statements made many years later when writing her
biography with a pious purpose—there was little of the tragic in her career.
She suffered, as we shall see, periods of dryness ; but they do not seem to
have been frequent during these years. She was a general favourite both with
the Sisters and with the many visitors, and she endured with much fortitude the
sense of her waywardness. Towards the end of that period, however, her burden
seemed to have increased. She became seriously distressed. A vision of Christ
with “ a very severe face,” interpreted by her as displeasure at her “ vanities
” (VII), indicates a grave inner conflict. . Then came the statue of Christ
with the wounds, and the readings of St Augustine’s Confessions, with
new resolutions as consequence. But no great transformation followed. The
chains that kept her attached to the World were not yet broken.
Three years later, in 1558, a new
experience—a rapture— occasioned the giving up of the worldly friendships.
Nearly all her life she had been flirting with the World from behind the nun’s
veil, getting what satisfaction she might from her youth, feminine charm, and
intellectual cleverness. Why did success come at this time ? The particular
occasion for the rapture,, we do not know ; but this we do know : she was now
forty-three. Age must have materially abated the cravings of the natural man ;
and, as they weakened, her other tendencies became more insistent in their
claim for realization.
With this surrender, she found herself
on terms of perfect trust and understanding with the Lord. Until then, her
allegiance had been divided and her energies dissipated in inner struggles. Now
there was no other way for her to gratify her aggressive and conquering soul
than to place at the service of God whatever ambition and energy she possessed.
And so her life ends, like that of Suzo, of Catherine of Genoa, of Francis of
Assisi, and of Mme Guyon, in constructive activity, potent enough to overcome
every obstacle put in its way.
We have already said in connexion with
Mme Guyon why we do not make of these active years a distinct period. Our
purpose is to indicate the main phases of a moral development. What happens
when that development has reached its end cannot be regarded as constituting a
period in that development. From another point of view, however, St Theresa’s
action as reformer and founder of monasteries evidently constitutes a
well-defined phase of her life.
Her moral development resembles very
closely that of Mme Guyon. It is less smooth in the latter, and the incidents
that mark her movements forward are more dramatic. On the whole, the moral
development of the Spanish Saint was as evenly graded as that of most persons,
and it followed the course one would expect in a person of her early education
and tendencies and breathing the particular religious atmosphere surrounding
her.
* * *
Santa Theresa has described with
considerable minuteness, under the general name of “ dryness,” a variety of
closely-related states of lowered vitality. These minor oscillations vary
greatly in duration and amplitude. They last one, two, three weeks, “ perhaps
longer.” From the data at hand, it would not be possible to establish a
chronological table of them ; but they do not, any more than the longer phases,
seem to have followed any rhythm.
Her descriptions bring out the
following features : doubt, scruples, frivolity, restlessness, mental
dispersion, inertness, irascibility, discouragement, inefficiency; and, in the
realm of feeling and emotion, displeasure, boredom, fear, and anxiety. Doubt of
one’s salvation, of the love of God, of the divine origin of the raptures, are
horribly tormenting ; while mere indifference or the frivolous activity of a
mind unable to fix itself, are not sharply painful. We add in a footnote three
instances of dryness to illustrate the diversities produced by various
combinations of these traits1.
In chapter XXXVII of the Life,
she refers to a week just spent in dryness. She was then in the neighbourhood
of fifty years of age : “I could feel neither a sense of my obligations toward
God nor remember His favours ; my mind was powerless. I had, in truth, no evil
thought; but I felt myself so incapable of good thoughts that I smiled at
myself.” And here she breaks out in the following amazing speech to her Lord. “
What ? Is it, then, not enough that you should keep me in this miserable life;
that I should submit for the love of you. Must you also hide yourself from me ?
How can that be reconciled with your compassion ? How can your love for me
tolerate that ? Lord, were it possible for me to hide myself from you as you do
from me, your love, I feel sure, would not tolerate it. Such ungratefulness is too
cruel ; consider, I beg of you, that it is not fair towards the one who loves
you so ardently.” The astonishment with which one reads this passage is not
much relieved by this explanation : “ Often, love moves me in such a way that I
am no longer master of myself; then it is that with the greatest freedom I dare
to address such plaints to our Lord, and He is gracious enough to tolerate all
this ” (XXXVII)2.
It will be granted, we think, that the
presence of these minor oscillations of the psycho-physiological level does not
call for any
1 “ All the favours ever granted me by the Lord were swept out of
my memory. My mind was so greatly obscured that I stumbled from doubt to doubt,
from fear to fear. I believed myself so wicked that I regarded my sins as the
cause of all the evils and of all the heresies that afflicted the world "
(XXX). In that false humility induced by the devil, the soul thinks of God as a
stern judge only, ready to destroy. “ Faith and compassion remain to the soul,
it is true, because no effort of the devil could take these away ; but this ray
of faith, instead of consoling, only increases the torments of the soul, in
that the greatness of its obligations to God is made clearer ” (XXX).
" The devil filled suddenly my
mind with things so frivolous that at other times I should simply have laughed
at them. In that condition one loses neither faith nor the other virtues, but
faith sleeps, and the soul becomes the prey of I know not what anguish and
torpidity : knowledge of God and of the truths of religion seem a mere dream coming
from afar. When the soul wishes to find solace in reading, it gets as little
comfort as if it knew not how to read. One day I read four or five times four
or five lines of it [the life of a saint], without understanding them
"(XXX).
“ I find myself at times in a very
singular state of stupidity. I do neither good nor evil; I walk after the
others, as the saying is, experiencing neither pain nor consolation,
indifferent to life as to death, to pleasure as to sorrow ; in a word nothing
matters to me " (XXX).
» It is impossible fully to understand
certain aspects of the religiosity of Santa Theresa and the likes of her
without realizing their familiarity with God. Similar conversations with God
may be found in Suzo’s Leben, chap. XXXI, pp.
131-2, and in our account of
Catherine of Genoa.
explanation on the part of the student
of religious life, for they are phenomena in no way peculiar to religion.
Moments of staleness, doubt, self-distrust, inertia, and general discomfort,
morbid or not, are by no means rare outside of religion ; most people are
familiar with them. Many an artist, not to speak of more ordinary persons,
could match Santa Theresa with regard to recurrent moments of self-doubt, of
fretfulness, of flights of shallow uncontrollable thoughts, of sterile
dullness, of vacant distress. Oscillations of the psychical level, universal in
their minor manifestations, constitute, when much exaggerated, specific forms
of mental disorder—the so-called cyclical insanity, for instance, in which
periods of great excitement follow upon periods of deep melancholy.
How insignificant psychical influences
may be in the production of these conditions is obvious. In later life, St
Theresa herself became clearsighted enough to recognize that “ at times poor
health was for a large part the cause ” (XXX) of her periods of dryness. It is
one of the pathetic fruits of human ignorance that the unfortunate who suffers
from depression physiologically induced, should add torment to misery by
interpreting the depression as divine chastisement or, even, permanent
rejection. To Bunyan, it meant the unpardonable sin ; to Mme Guyon, final
reprobation (XXVII).
* * *
3. Did Santa Theresa attain her
Ethical Goal ?—The answer is substantially as in the case of Mme Guyon :
she was mistaken when she thought she did. She is frank or naive enough not to
hide the proofs of her imperfection. At fifty years of age she admits that she
still feels springing up in her vanity and other defects (XXXI). The account
she gives of a long visit, under order from her superior, to a lady, “ one of
the first of the kingdom,” who had recently lost her husband, is an excellent
example of self-complacency, aggravated by extravagant professions of humility
and wickedness. “ Extreme sorrow ” is alleged at the thought that the good
opinion they had of her decided her superior to send her to the lady. She makes
difficulties about going on the ground of her unworthiness. Yet she did not
refrain fr.m penning these lines : “ During my stay in that house, all those who
lived in it made progress in God’s service, thanks to His blessing ” ; and
concerning the lady herself, she says, of the time she spent with her, “ Her
soul expanded from day to day ” (XXXIV). On many occasions she speaks with
obvious pride of her influence upon various persons. But it is especially in
the way in which she proceeded in the matter of the foundation of her first
monastery that she reveals her common humanity. All her immediate superiors
opposed or discouraged her. Humility and
obedience prevented her neither from
thinking she knew better nor from persisting in her intention. For many years
she bided her time, quietly pulling wires. Finally, by dint of persistent
secret diplomacy and disregard of her immediate superiors, she succeeded in obtaining
a permission from higher authorities.
Those about her accused her of seeking
her own gratification ; the town objected for other reasons and carried its
opposition to the council of the King. In the end, however, she triumphed. At
the first celebration of the mass in her new monastery she exulted ; it was to
her “ a foretaste of the glory of heaven ” (XXXVI). But she did not escape
remorse : “ Three or four hours after this ceremony the devil stirred up in me
a conflict. He suggested to me that perhaps I had offended God in doing what I
had done, and that I had failed in obedience in establishing this monastery
without the order of my superior.” These and other reasons for blame came to
her mind, but she dismissed them all as the devil’s work !
The conviction of her greatness welled
up more than once, but never so baldly as in the vision in which she saw
herself being clothed by the Virgin Mary, assisted by St Joseph, with a gown of
dazzling whiteness. They decorated her with priceless jewels and told her that
she was altogether free from sin (XXXIII).
The significance of this incidence
lies not in the dream itself; for the ethical, hard-won self is not responsible
for dream-elaborations, they are the creation of older strata of the mind. It
is the Saint’s failure to reject the dream as the devil’s own that gives to it
its significance. Instead of being inexpressibly shocked by this lurid burst of
pride, she complaisantly and unhesitatingly accepts it. It would not be
sufficient to urge in her defence that she was in the habit of regarding dreams
populated by angels, the Virgin, and other inhabitants of Heaven, as sent from
God. That she could regard that dream as sent from God is a material fact in
the evidence to be adduced against her perfect humility. Her saintliness was
shot through with an ambition and a pride that death alone could subdue. We may
repeat here that the ambition of our mystics soars so high that nothing short
of divine power and glory satisfies them
* * *
St Marguerite Marie1 (1647-90)
This contemporary of Mme Guyon
was beatified in 1864 and recently canonized. She offers really nothing new to
the student of the preceding biographies. The same dominant tendencies and the
1 Unless otherwise stated the quotations are from the Histoire
de la Bien- heureuse Marguerite Marie et des Origines de la Devotion au Cceur
de Jestis, by Emile Bougaud, Bishop of Laval, Paris ; Poussielgue, 1900,
pp. 365.
same general environment produced
results of the same sort. But she lacked the superior intelligence of her great
predecessors. Intellectual inferiority, combined with a powerful sex-impulse,
early awakened by religious symbolism and directed to Jesus, make of her a link
between the great, accepted mystics and a class of mystics with whom the Church
will have nothing to do. If, despite her mental inferiority, the Devotion au
Cceur de Jesus grew out of her " revelations ” and she was canonised,
it is thanks to others who saw in her visions an opportunity of fortifying the
Church of Rome. The worship of the Sacred Heart of Jesus spread rapidly,
acquired vast proportions, and continues to wield great influence in France and
in other countries.1
Marguerite ■ Marie Alacoque was bom in 1647 of humble parentage. When eight
years of age, on the death of her father, she was sent to a convent where she
seems to have been profoundly impressed by the continual prayers and the
midnight devotions. She made her first communion at the early age of nine. Soon
after she suffered a serious illness and was withdrawn from the convent. During
that long disease she was powerfully attracted to orison. Already then a
consuming desire to love God, to suffer with him and for him, and to absorb
herself in him, tormented her. The amusements and diversions of her age had
lost their attraction.
At home she was miserable. Her uncle,
who had become the head of the household, treated her badly. She found refuge
more and more completely in God, subjecting herself to austere penances,
fasting, iron chains, sleeping on a board, and spending nights in prayer.
Under these conditions she continued
to live until the age of fifteen. It is at that time that God began to appear
to her. She repeats on almost every page of her Memoirs that her
Sovereign Master had taken possession of her soul and directed her in everything.
It seems as if she had already attained the complete surrender of her will to
God. During her devotions she gets into a state of absorption or trance, as the
following quotation indicates. “ As soon as she had a moment to spare she would
run to church. She
1 " The revelation of the Sacred Heart,” writes Mgr Bougaud,
" is, without doubt the most important of the revelations which have
enlightened the Church after those of the Incarnation and of the Eucharist. It
is the greatest illumination since Pentecost.” Over against this opinion may be
placed that of another of her biographers, " The devotion of the Sacred
Heart created by Marguerite Marie Alacoque, or rather founded upon her
hallucinations, should be abolished as a religious aberration unworthy of
humanity.”—" Marie Alacoque,” by Dr Rouby, Revue de I’Hypnoiisme,
vol. XVII, 1902-3, pp. 112, ff. ; 150, ff. ; 180, ff. ; 373, ff. This study
written from the standpoint of the alienist is based upon the Journal of
the Saint, as published by Mgr Languet in 1827. The edition that I have used,
first published in 1876, is not in complete agreement with that of 1827.
could not remain in the nave, love
carried her to the foot of the altar. She was never near enough the tabernacle.
' I could no longer pray vocally before the holy sacrament, ’ she would say. ‘
I could have spent there days and nights without food or drink. I did not know
what I was doing there, except that I was being consumed in the presence of God
like a burning holy candle ’ ” (73).
As she reached the age of seventeen
her home situation changed. Her brothers, now of age, assumed the leadership.
Their financial situation was now good and the household was happy and gay. She
responded to the new surroundings. " I began,” she says, “ to see people
and to adorn myself in order to please, and I sought amusement so far as I
could ” (80).
But God did not let her go. She
describes thus her experiences on coming back from an evening’s entertainment :
"At night, when I took off these cursed liveries of Satan—I mean these
worldly trappings, my Sovereign Master would appear to me as He appeared at His
flagellation, all disfigured, and would reproach me strangely, saying that my
vanities had led Him to this state, that I was betraying Him, persecuting Him,
Him who had given me so many proofs of His love. In order to punish myself for
the injuries that I had done Him, I would bind this miserable criminal body
with ropes full of knots, and I would draw them so hard that I could hardly
breathe and eat ” (81-82). She adds that the ropes remained on her so long that
she could not remove them without tearing off bits of her flesh. On
another occasion she engraved with a pen-knife the name of Christ over her
heart. The wound was not deep, for at her death no scar was visible.
Her mother, who was not happy in her
sons’ house, was in haste to see her married in the hope of finding a better
home with her. But Marguerite Marie was haunted by the vow of chastity made in
infancy and the thought that, if she broke it, she would be punished by “
frightful torments.” Thus for four years, from 1663 to 1667, she struggled
between her love of the World and her love and fear of God. As she approached
her twentieth year her desire to be a nun grew so fervent that she resolved to
realise it “ at any cost.”
During these years she had read the
lives of the saints, including probably much mystical literature, and had spent
much time teaching children in her own room and visiting the poor. Her
passionate love of Christ had apparently been growing. She felt that he was
urging upon her the fulfilment of her vow. He said to her : “ I have chosen you
as my bride ; we promised each other faithfulness when you made me a vow of
chastity. I pressed you to take that vow before the world had any part in your
heart, for I wanted it altogether pure, untainted by any earthly affection ” (88).
“ One day, after holy communion, He showed me that He was the handsomest, the
richest, the most powerful, the most perfect and accomplished of lovers ; and
demanded why it was, since I was promised to Him, that I wanted to break the
engagement ” (92). Thereupon, she renewed her vow of chastity and definitely
refused to marry.
Three years later, at the age of
twenty-three, she entered the monastery of the Visitation, founded by St.
Francois de Sales at Paray. “ Seventeen months later she lay down on the pavement
of the church, the sheet of the dead was spread over her, and she rose again,
radiant, for she was henceforth to be dead to the world.”
It must be said in praise of the good
sense of the monastery that during her noviciate much was done to put an end to
her ecstasies and her excessive asceticism. The extraordinary graces that she
enjoyed were under suspicion. The monastery demanded the plain Christian
virtues: obedience, humility, brotherly love. She declared herself willing and
desirous to obey ; but, as in the case of St Theresa, encouraging visions and
ecstasies continued to appear.
In order to assuage the consuming
fires of love, the Mother Superior sent her to the garden to take care of an
ass and her colt. This remedy proved ineffective ; the company of the asses did
not restrain her from seeking and finding that of God. But presently the
sisters not only became accustomed to her visions and revelations, they grew
proud of her ; and, as revelations followed fast upon each other, she came to be
looked upon as appointed of God to perform a great task.
Her behaviour impressed her associates
as perfect, says her biographer. A Mother Superior declared that during the six
years that she had known her she had not once failed to live up to her promise
to make God rule in her before all, above all, and in all. She herself was not
quite of that opinion. One comes frequently in her Memoirs upon passages
of this tenor : “ On another occasion I spoke of myself with some vanity. O
God, how many tears this fault caused me ! For when we were alone together He
reprimanded me with a stem countenance, saying, ‘ What have you, O creature of
dust and ashes, of which you can boast, since you are but Nothingness ? In
order that you may not forget again what you are, I will show you a picture of
yourself,’ and immediately He made me see in miniature what I am. This picture
awakened hatred of myself and desires of vengeance against myself ” (145-6).
She seems to have suffered in common
with other mystics from attacks of sleep. Her biographer finds pleasure in
quoting attestations of her companions from which it appears that she would
forget herself for indefinite periods while on her knees before the altar,
remaining all the time perfectly motionless. Everyone wondered how she could
stay so long in the same attitude. They described her as filled with God,
motionless as marble, with eyes closed and an expression of ecstasy on her
face. At times, however, things took another turn. While on her knees in the
choir, she would suddenly faint and then “ she had to be carried out, trembling
and burning. Her face was flaming, her eyes in tears. She could not utter a
word.”
She was subject to sensory automatisms
and to imperative impulses. We have already met in the lives of several mystics
incidents similar to this one : “I was so sensitive that the slightest dirt
gave me nausea. He (God or Christ) found fault with me on that score so
strongly that once while cleaning up the vomit of a patient, I was hot able to
refrain from doing it with my tongue. He caused me to find so much delight in
that action that I should have liked an opportunity of repeating it every day.
In order to reward me, the following night He held me at least two or three
hours, the mouth glued upon His sacred heart1.” One may suppose that
the “ delight ” involved in that repulsive action was merely relief at having
yielded to an imperative impulse. Resistance to imperative ideas is known to
cause at times anguishing pain. In another connexion she reports that resistance
had no other effect than to make her suffer.
Her love for Jesus was at times so
intense that it became an excruciatingly delightful pain : “ When I have
received Jesus, I feel quite done up, but filled with a joy so intense that at
times for a quarter of an hour everything is silence within me except for the
voice of Him whom I love.” “ The longer she lived,” writes her biographer, the
“ more the love of God consumed her. Her frail and delicate constitution could
not resist such emotions. Emaciated, pale, with transparent flesh through which
shone as it were, the flame of the spirit, she realised more and more the song
of her noviciate :
“ I feel
myself a harassed doe
Wounded
and panting for water ;
The dart
of the huntsman has pierced to my heart, His hand has compassed my slaughter2.”
Once as the bridegroom was crushing
her by the weight of his love and she was remonstrating, He said : “Let me do
my pleasure There is a time for everything. Now I want you to be the plaything
1
Quoted by Dr Rouby, loc. cit., p. 180 ; and also more
briefly by Mgr Bougaud, p. 172.
2
pp. 173-4.
of my love, and you must live thus
without resistance, surrendered to my desires, allowing me to gratify myself at
your expense .”
The Apostolat du Sucre Cceur,
by which, according to her biographer, the Church was revivified, is the
outcome of a series of revelations vouchsafed her during the cataleptiform
attacks described above ; of their puerility the reader will be able to judge
for himself. She was commanded to put these revelations in writing. She obeyed,
blotting the pages with tears. Only one of her note-books now remains. She
states that nothing but her vow of obedience would have made possible to her
this task, so much did it outrage her sense of humility. Nevertheless, she was
evidently deeply impressed by the glorious role to which her visions called
her. They are of Jesus and of His heart, of flames issuing from it, and of her
being drawn upon His bosom—of this and of little else. The time came when “
every first Friday of the month the sacred heart of Jesus would appear to me as
a sun shining with a dazzling light. Its rays struck perpendicularly upon my
heart which was set afire and threatened to be consumed to ashes ” (322). The
heart of Christ appeared at times pierced through and torn by blows ; at other
times pressed upon by a crown of thorns and bleeding. Whatever the vision,
there was always the thought of ardent love attracting the soul. Like other
mystics, she usually felt that her descriptions did not do justice to the
revelations.
The tablet commemorating the Devotion
of the Sacred Heart bears this quotation from her Memoirs : “ My
Sovereign Master made me repose long upon His divine breast, and discovered to
me the marvels of His love and the inexplicable secrets of His sacred heart
which He had so far hidden from me. Jesus said to me : ‘ My divine heart is so
filled with love for all mankind and for you in particular that it is unable to
contain longer within itself the flames of its burning charity ; it must spread
them abroad by your means.’ After these words He asked for my heart, and I
begged Him to take it; this He did, and placed it in His own adorable heart.”
The following information concerning
the scenes that attended the ceremonies of the beatification of Marguerite
Marie and the miracles alleged to have signalized them, deserve perhaps a place
here as documents revealing the utterly pre-scientific attitude of a large part
of the contemporary population of civilized countries.
In 1824, one hundred and thirty-four
years after her death, Pope Leo XII, in response to the appeals of the sisters
of the Visitation, took the first steps toward her canonization and proclaimed
her “ Venerable.” Six years afterwards, the apostolic delegates appointed by
the Holy See to investigate the " heroic virtues ” of Marguerite Marie
arrived in France. Her tomb was opened in the presence of the diocesan bishop,
a large number of priests and monks, and four physicians. They found within “
only the bones, but these exhaling the aroma of immortality. The bones were
dried, and all the flesh consumed ; the brain alone remained intact; that alone,
O wonder of wonders ! had resisted corruption. This part, so soft, so delicate,
which so rapidly wastes away, which is the very first to decay, was there,
after a hundred and forty years, in all its former freshness. One could
scarcely credit the evidence of his own eyes : the miracle was overwhelming.”
Fourteen years more were found
necessary for examining the virtues of the " Venerable.” “ Everything was
analysed, studied, discussed, with that exactitude, that deliberateness which
characterizes the irrevocable acts of the court of Rome. The Congregation of
Rites had just reported favourably on her heroic virtues, when Gregory XVI
died, leaving to Pius IX the glory and joy of proclaiming them.” This, Pius
promptly did ; but not until twenty-four years later, in 1864, was the final
decree of beatification promulgated. Its celebration began at Paray by the
re-opening of the tomb for the final removal of the sacred relics which were to
be placed " on the altar of St. Peter to receive the first homage from the
Pope and the Church.” The chief magistrates of the town and more than three
hundred priests accompanied the sacred remains where they were to be examined.
A moment of tense anxiety prevailed as they waited to discover the condition of
the brain, which in 1830 had appeared quite free from corruption : “ In what
state was it going to be found ? Would God have preserved this sign of life in
the dry bones ? The bishop lifted the skull. ‘ Behold, behold the sacred sign !
’ In vain had thirty-four years slipped past; in vain the opening of the casket
and the exposure of the brain to the air ; it is intact, though slightly
hardened and shrunken. The crowd prostrate themselves and adore ; they recount
to one another similar happenings, and all hearts beat high with a holy
enthusiasm.” (444-58 abbreviated.)
These extraordinary scenes took place
not in the Dark Ages but in the latter half of the last century ; and the
author of this account of them was a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church. In 1900
his book had reached its tenth edition.
What do the Christian
mystics want ? Were we to ask them that question, they would give us the
traditional answer. But it should not be assumed that it would name fully and
exactly the forces that drive them on. The motives assigned for action are
often mere justifications for promptings very imperfectly understood. We are
all distressingly like the unfortunate asylum patient impelled in and out of
season to wash his hands. He washes them “ because they are dirty.” Yet, the
psychiatrist is aware of other promptings hidden to the patient. .,
'(The mystics say that they
want “ God.’j That is a convenient traditional way of naming their goal. But
what is it that urges them on, what do they really want when they want “ God ”
?
That is our present problem. We began
to seek an answer to it in the first chapter where we inquired into the effects
of drugs used by the non-civilized to make him divine. We shall continue in the
present chapter, and here with special reference to Christian mysticism.
* * *
The behaviour of the mystics, like
that of everybody else, is instigated by innate tendencies to action and by
needs1 that express themselves in forms determined mainly by
experience. The tendencies and needs that come to expression with especial
intensity in our group of mystics may be listed as follows :
1.
The tendencies to self-affirmation and the need for selfesteem.
2.
The tendencies to cherish, to devote oneself to something or
somebody. These tendencies come to their most perfect expression in the
parents’ relations with the utterly dependent child but, strange as it may
seem, they appear even in man’s relations with God.
J " Tendency to action ” means
here an impulsion to behave in a particular way, while the term " need ”
is used to designate a striving restlessness without specific direction.
Experience soon teaches us, however, how our ordinary needs can be relieved,
and, then, definite tendencies become connected with them. The feelings due to
lack of nourishment and to moral isolation constitute respectively the need for
food and the needs for social relationship.
3.
The needs for affection and moral support.
4.
The need for peace, for single-mindedness or unity, both in
passivity and in action.
5.
“ Organic ” needs or needs for sensuous satisfaction (especially
in connexion with the sex-life). If the mystics profess disdain for the body
and its pleasures, it is not because they are indifferent to sensuous delight
as such, but because they see some incompatibility between the pleasures of the
flesh and the soul’s welfare. When they are not aware of the bodily origin of
sensuous enjoyment, they give themselves up to it with great relish and
complete abandon.
There is nothing singular in the
existence in the mystics of these springs of action ; they are present in every
civilized individual. It is the energy and tenacity of certain of them, and,
more especially, the method used to gratify them that distinguish the mystic.
Whatever particularity marks the
mystics off from other persons is due to their education as much as to their
temperament. Each one of those we are considering fell very early under the influence
of two great ideals of monastic Christianity : self-surrender to God’s Will and
chastity. These ideals might not strike very deep roots if the Church did not
present them not only as good in themselves, but as conditions of
securing the highest imaginable good—divine love. One of the effects of that
belief is that chastity does not appear merely as an abstention, a negative
virtue ; it leads up to a most intense love. Our mystics were taught
furthermore that the only means of adequately realising these two ideals are to
be found in the Christian scheme of salvation.
The ideals of self-renunciation, of
chastity, and of surrender to a loving and righteous God constitute the
essential acquisitions of their early years. It can be said of these ideals that
they represent the potency of medieval Christianity.
Suzo, guided by his pious mother,
entered the Dominican Order at the age of thirteen, and, a little later, came
under the direct influence of Eckhart. In early childhood Catherine of Genoa
was extraordinarily moved by a picture of the dead Christ in His Mother's lap ;
it “ seems to have suggested religious ideas and feelings with the suddenness
and emotional solidity of a physical seizure
.” Between the ages of
thirteen and sixteen, influenced by her confessor and her sister, the Canoness
of an Augustinian convent, she desired to enter a monastery. Santa Theresa was
familiar from early childhood with religious devotions. At seven she ran away
with her brother, Roderick, to seek martyrdom among the Moors. At sixteen, she
was placed in a convent. Mme Guyon spent in a convent most of the years that
preceded a very early marriage. At the end of her father’s garden she had a
chapel dedicated to the child Jesus where she performed her childish devotions.
At twelve, under the influence of a priest, she had her first spell of intense
piety and learned to make orison. At eight years of age, St Marguerite Marie
was sent to a convent. At nine, she made her first communion. She had already
lost taste for the pleasures of her age. Very soon after, she was able to
" absorb herself in God.”
One might continue through the list of
the great mystics and show how their imagination, heart and conscience became
very early possessed by the ideals of the Christianity of their times.
In the only instance we shall consider
of a Protestant modem mystic (Mlle Ve), the idea of self-surrender to God’s
will was also implanted early as well as the ideal of chastity ; this last was
trans- mittted to her in the form common in Protestant Christianity where
virginity is not regarded as superior to the married state.
Fearjs a relatively^insignificant
factor in the livesjofJ:he.great .mystics. It is often entirely absent,
and it is only in early life that it is ever present as a fear of divine
punishment on earth, or of hellfire hereafter. The only two noteworthy
instances of this fear appear in Theresa and in Marguerite Marie. When the
former embraced the holy life, she was aware of the fear motive. The second was
restrained from breaking her vow to remain a virgin, by fear of the wrath of
Christ, her Bridegroom. Later in the career of each, fear vanished altogether.
There is no place for that emotion in the intimate loverelation they
maintained with the heavenly Powers. Not even during the periods of dryness
does fear of hell reappear ; the fear of which they may speak at those times is
the fear of having offended and lost God.
Thus our mystics were placed very
early in life in the presence of a dilemma : two roads opened before them, one
leading to the World, the other to Heaven. The advantages ofthe holy life were
kept before their eves during the most impressionable years, by the
matchless prestige and the powerful means at the disposal of the Church of
Rome. The World appeared full of dangers mortal to the soul, and offered at
best inferior satisfactions, while Heaven involved a renunciation of the
cravings of the natural man. But this sacrifice
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM
119 was to be rewarded after death with an eternal life of bliss ; and, on this
earth, with an incomparably delightful love-relationship with God .and Christ,
But even the Church influences,
powerful as they were, seem to have been, in the majority of our instances,
insufficient to compel the choice of the road ultimately followed. Nothing less
than a peremptory rejection by the World was necessary in order to.bring them
To the other alternative. It was not until finally spurned by the
social group in which he was ambitious to move that Francis of Assisi turned to
Christ. If in the case of Suzo it cannot be said with assurance that the World
rejected him, it seems that his native disposition and the quality of his
religious ideal made .it difficult if not impossible .for him to accept the
love of woman as adequate. In the absence of a maiden's love, he sought the
divine Mistress ; and, having found her, never could or would leave her for any
mortal.
St
Catherine of Genoa met with the most grievous disappointment that can befall a
woman of delicate sensibility and ethical refinement. Scarcely out of childhood
she was married to a man quite unworthy of her. Love was baulked of its dues
perhaps even more completely in the instance of Mme Guyon. These two women Were
thrown into the arms of the divine Lover by an unbearable__________________________________________________
earthly situation. We do not forget
that in similar circumstances other women seek worldly compensations ; they
find love outside the marriage bond and regard their lot if not as
satisfactory, at least as tolerable. The mystic differs from these persons by
the presence in him of the high ideals we have mentioned and by the belief that
the holy life is more than an acceptable alternative to earthly love.
The case of St Marguerite Marie is
also quite clear. She was somewhat inclined to marry and would, it seems, have
done so had she not bartered away her freedom when a mere child. Repeatedly she
had vowed to keep herself a virgin for Christ’s sake, and she had early tasted
the incomparable sensuous delight with which he rewards some of those that give
themselves up to him. There is something clearly morbid in her relation with
Christ, both with regard to love and to the fear of his wrath should she break
her vows of virginity. Mlle Ve also suffered, and in a marked degree, from
unrealized love-aspirations and unsatisfied sexual need.
Not one of the prominent
representatives of mysticism lived a normal married life1. The kind
of love bestowed by them upon God and Christ is apparently incompatible with
normal conjugal relations. Anticipating a later section, we may say already now
that many of the curious phenomena to which most great mystics owe in part
their
1 George Fox is no exception to this rule.
120
PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM fame op notoriety, are due _to perturbations,
of _the sex function consequent upon its regression.
* * *
The saying that reciprocated love
brings with it everything that the heart desires is true, if at all, only when
the object of love is perfect in goodness and power. The mystic seeks, and, as he
thinks, finds union with a loving God, the embodiment of all perfections ; or,
rather, he seeks that which the divine Presence would bring in the way of
peace, affection, self-assurance, self-respect, etc. To realize the presence of
the God of Love is the mystic’s method of securing the satisfaction of his
essential wants.
In mystical ecstasy, that Presence is
secured in a peculiarly concrete—one might say, sensuous manner. In another
connexion we shall have to consider the cause of that concreteness, and we
shall learn that the relation of certain classes of patients to their
physicians and its practical results, especially when they hypnotize their
patients, is in a surprising degree similar to the relation of the mystic with
his God and to its results.
But trance ecstasy, is rare and
not vouchsafed to all those who seek and find the companionship of a loving God
Also at other times the mystic may be conscious of the nearness and love of
God, feel him by his side, walk, as it were, hand in hand in blessed companionship
with him. The following analysis of the boon of divine Presence refers,
therefore, to the experience of all those who enjoy, in various degrees of
intimacy, personal relations with the Christian God.
For the purpose of exposition it will
not be advisable to follow the order in which the significant springs of
mystical life have been listed above. A number of them will be grouped under
the heading “ Universalization or Socialization of the Individual Will.” The
discussion of that topic and of the sex impulse will demand most of the space
occupied by this chapter.
* * *
1.
The Tendencies to Self-affirmation and the Need for Self-esteem.
To be loved means to be esteemed and
admired beyond all others ; it is an acknowledgment of one’s worth. The greater
and better the lover, the more complete the satisfaction. Thus, to be loved by
God gratifies in a perfect way the need for self-respect and the tendencies to
self-affirmation.
Certain aspects of the behaviour of
the great mystics, especially their professions of humility and obedience and
their apparent readiness to suffer anything, however offensive, has led to an
altogether wrong interpretation of their character. They have been assimilated
with the humble and purposeless. This is a
misunderstanding; they are, on the
contrary, determined not only to be worth while but also to be recognized as
such ; they will not tolerate the "inferiority complex.” Their light shall
not shine under a bushel. They show the firmest purpose and accept no influence
that does not lead where they want to go. The reader will recall how forcibly
their relations with their directors illustrate this point.
Francis of Assisi may be taken as a
representative of the group in point of ambition. He is pictured by his
biographers .as a wild youth, consumed with a desire to shine. The son
of a merchant in the little town of Assisi, he must needs keep company with the
gilded youth of the place and squander with them the hard-earned money of his
father. His extravagance gained for him some local celebrity. " To his
fancy, life was what the songs of the troubadours had painted it; he dreamed of
glorious adventures and always ended by saying : ‘You will see that one day I
shall be adored by the whole world1.’ ” He was " tortured with
the desire for that which is far off and high2.” But his position
among the favourites of fortune was precarious ; he had to swallow many a
bitter rebuff. After a most painful experience3, his pride wounded
past healing by the contempt of those of whom he thought himself the equal, he
made a volte-face. If the World would not feed his ambition and appease
his aspiring heart, the Church and God would. He soon came to be of the opinion
that the holy life had provided him with grander triumphs and greater love than
the World could have offered him.
' Similarly with Ignatius Loyola ;
when, in consequence of the loss of a leg, a glorious career in the armies of
his earthly sovereign had become impossible, he sought and found compensation
in the service of God and the Church. With the consent of the Pope, he made
himself the General of an army before which both satanic and earthly powers
trembled. The reader will recall that the desire to attract attention and to
play a distinguished role is written large in the autobiographies of Santa
Theresa and of Mme Guyon.
It is hardly necessary to add that,
after all, humility, in the sense of a genuine-rejection of admiration, .is not
possible to man. and that no sort of greatness can be achieved by one devoid of
ambition and of moral energy. Moral worth is not measured by the absence of
these traits but by the purpose which they serve.
* * *
1
Paul Sabatier, Life of Francis of Assisi, London, 1894, p.
13.
2
Ibid., p. 9.
3
Ibid., pp.
17-20.
2.
The Dread of Isolation ; the Needs for Moral Support, for A
ffection, and for Peace in Passivity and in Activity.
Man is just as dependent upon friendly
association with his kind foi his mental well-being as he is upon food for his
bodily health. To be shown the cold shoulder by everyone, to be despised and
rejected, is so abhorrent as to make one shrink from the very thought of it.
Isolation entails not only unbearable misery, but inevitable deterioration1.
But the enjoyment of any company and
the possession of the esteem of any kind of persons is not sufficient for the
highest happiness. Association with those that are regarded as the best and
highest is alone entirely satisfying. The divine Presence, constant and
intimate, is necessary to the entire and highest satisfaction of this aspect of
human nature—that, in any case, is the mystic’s opinion.
Much of that which comes to man in the
divine companionship may be designated as peace—the peace of repose and
the peace of single-mindedness in activity. By peace of repose we mean that
which is experienced when the mind, relieved from impulses and desires, ceases
to strive. It is relaxation, rest, passivity—the Nirvana for which thirst all
the sons of man when the pace has been too quick, the problems of life too
complex, and even when the ordinary day’s task is done. This peace, man must
have at more or less regular intervals. It is such an essential, natural want
that he could not get along if nature had not provided relief for it in the
automatic subsidence of self-consciousness into sleep. But to that automatic
relief he has added others of his own finding. The use of narcotics is largely
a response to the demand for relief from tension, perplexity and worry; and
worshipjs a device for producing, among other things, the same result. The
Bishop of Puy in a speech to crusaders under the walls of Antioch tells them
that “ he who shall die, shall have his bed prepared in Paradise.” ” To conquer
a bed in Paradise was to be the goal of all good knights*.” Thus is expressed,
in its crudest form, the desire for the peace of passivity. That peace is a
1
The fear of isolation, expressed in its simplest form in the herd
instinct, assumes a very different form in men of high intellectual culture. In
an essay on immortality, C. F. Dole writes, “ I own that the more I know
about life, the more I desire to discover rationality in it. I had rather be a
citizen for even a brief period in a significant and intelligent world than to
live forever in a meaningless world .... I cannot help this kind of bias."
An irrational world would mean to this writer intolerable isolation. In order
to be happy, he must be able to think that the Universe is, like himself,
rational. This assurance would bring him, if not all, at least some of the
essential stimuli found by the mystic in the divine Presence.—The Hope of
Immortality, Ingersoll Lecture, 1906, p. 4.
2
Leon Gauthier, La Chevalerie, p. 99.
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM
123 boon so great that millions of men look no further : the consummation
devoutly to be wished is, for them, the attainment of permanent Nirvana, that
is, of peaceful oblivion. Mystical worship offers a remarkable and effective
method of obtaining moments of perfect peace in. passivity.
But the temper, of the people who have
produced or accepted Christianity, is one that sets the peace, of action
above that of passivity. It is not that they disregard the latter; but that,
instead of setting it up as an end in itself, as Buddhism does, they regard it
merely as a preparation. What they want is not subsidence of the personality
into an impersonal All, but fullness of individual existence. Refreshing and
blissful moments of passivity are merely a condition of effective and
undistracted activity. In the religions possessed of that ideal, God has been
conceived accordingly, and worship has taken a form conducive both to the peace
of passivity and to the mental unification and vivification required for
success in the struggle for a more satisfying life.
The need of realizing, in the interest
of efficient action, a condition of mental harmony, appears with startling
vividness in persons particularly lacking in energy, in victims of
irresolution, doubt and worry. These people illustrate in a sphere other than
religion, the need of what we have called the peace of activity, and also the
surprisingly powerful influence of a personal relation of admiration and trust.
Dr Paul Farez writes of a neuropathic
woman afflicted by obsessions, “ Mme C. has been for a long time under the care
of one of the most sought after physicians of Hospital staffs. She visits him
on an average once a month. If he receives her well, she enjoys good health for
a month ; if, from the slightest indications, she gathers that he is
preoccupied, apprehensive, tired, she is ill during the whole following month.
" Although he does not
consciously hypnotize, this physician exercises upon his patients a
considerable psychical influence. When in his presence, Mme C. is, as it
were, drowsy, and can hardly speak. She recovers her thoughts only when she is
again outside ; but the hand that he has shaken remains warm; she feels
stronger, encouraged. She has found in her physician the guide, the moral
support, the director of thoughts whom she needs1.”
Similar observations will be found in
the writings of every physician who has practised among sufferers from this
form of mental insufficiency. But no one has understood this aspect of human
nature
1 Dr. Paul Farez, Stigmates de Dtgtn&rescence mentale et
psychothfrapie, R v. de I’Hypnotisme, April, 1901.
and the role of the physician as “
dir ecteur ” more completely than Pierre Janet. His works contain many
illustrations of what he ventures to call the maladie de I’isolement.
Giele insists upon her need to give herself up to another, to abandon herself,
to sacrifice her personality in order to live in something superior. She has
always felt “ an impulse to cuddle up1.” Nadia declares : “ Life is
nothing if I have not someone to admire, to listen to. It seems to me that the
one I love is like a solid rock to which I am tied in the midst of a raging sea2.”
These needs are universal. Everyone of our mystics expresses them in words and
deeds. When Mlle Ve attempts to state her chief needs, she writes, “ Nothing
makes me more unhappy than not to have anyone who interests himself in a
particular way and sympathetically to what goes on in me3.” In the
loved presence, we know how to act, we are relieved from tormenting uneasiness,
hesitations and scruples.
“ Many of these psychopaths do not
realize the nature of their disease, and do not go to a physician; but they
nevertheless find a person whom they entrust with the direction of their minds.
B.K., twenty years old, daughter of an epileptic and alcoholic father, had had
hysterical seizures and contractures. She visits the chaplain of the hospital,
who admonishes and advises her. She feels happy and in better health, and so
she returns to him and asks advice concerning even insignificant actions. She
goes to see him every day. Her parents, who look upon these visits with
suspicion, do not succeed in reducing their frequency. From the day when she
first saw the priest the hysterical manifestations ceased; and, yet, he
certainly did not hypnotize her, nor did he make use of suggestion in any form4.”
Did not something similar happen to Mme Guyon when she met Father la Combe,
and, in general, to those who live in the divine Presence ?
A young woman, twenty-three years old,
“ falls sick, shows a beginning of hysterical manifestations, because her
husband who is compelled to go to work away from her leaves her alone several
days a week. She says : I had merely a mechanical life ; I would dream
wide-awake ; I was like a somnambule, as if I were tipsy. When, under these
circumstances, she takes a lover in a quite haphazard fashion, it is, I believe
I have the right to say, not under the stress of a physical need, but because
of the moral need for some one near her
1
P. Janet, Les Obesssions et la Psychasthenic, Paris, 1903,
vol. I, p. 388.
2
Ibid., p. 389.
See also by the same author, Les Medications Psychologiques, Paris,
Alcan, 1919, vol. Ill, pp. 386-93, and the following sections.
3
Une Mystique Moderne,
p. 153.
4
P. Janet, Neuroses et I dies Fixes, vol. I, p. 458-9.
who would make her obey. As a matter
of fact, the hysterical manifestations disappeared immediately1.
Isolation is, according to Janet, the chief factor in many psychoses,
particularly in serious cases of aboulia. He has gathered many instances of
young wives tormented by fixed ideas, by the doubting mania, by hypochondria,
by hysterical manifestations, because their husbands have not known how to
assume the role of directors of their minds. “ They are people who feel an
instinctive horror of isolation and make desperate efforts to keep some one
near them2.”
Howeverinsufficientwhen inhibited,
scattered, and divided against itself the energy of the patient may be, it
becomes relatively adequate when stimulated, organized, and directed under the
influence of a trusted friend. That is precisely what is accomplished in the
preceding instances : thus the peace of activity is secured.
The relation of two persons to each
other when one controls and guides the other by means other than rational
persuasion, is seen in its most complete example in hypnotism. The French word,
rapport, has become the technical term for the designation of the
relation of the hypnotized person to the hypnotizer. If the reader will turn to
the account of Mme Guyon’s life, he will observe that, between her and God the
relation is essentially that of the hypnotic rapport. God, she says,
prevented her from acting or prompted her into action without her will taking
any part. In ordinary mysticism the relation with God, although still of the
same type, is nearer to that formed between friends, when one is greatly
dependent upon the other.
It would not be necessary to insist
upon the profound effect of human relationship if the influence of God upon man
did not continue to appear to many as of another order. The frequency with
which a human being is utterly dependent upon an intimate companion might be
illustrated by a long list of lovers who have pined away when the loved one had
disappeared. In chapter XI (The Sense of Invisible Presence and Divine
Guidance) will be found a striking instance of the dependence of a man of high
intellectual distinction, John Stuart Mill, upon his wife, even after her
death.
Intellectual activity itself is
fertilized by such a happy companionship as Mill enjoyed with his wife, not
only by direct contribution of the beloved to the solution of the common
problems, by the
1
P. Janet, Nivroses et I dies Fixes, vol. I, p. 465.
2
Ibid., p. 465.
When considering the hallucination of presence, we shall have occasion to
return to the influence of God upon the believer. In his last work Les Medications
Psychologiques, vol. Ill, chap. V, La direction morale, P. Janet
discusses again and more fully the problems of isolation and of direction.
stimulus of discussion, and by the
desire to please her and to enhance oneself in her eyes, but in still another
way: her presence and even the mere thought of her presence
clarifies'the mind and purifies the will by calming fretfulness and eliminating
the lower greeds. One of my correspondents (No. 52) who complains of being “
too often mentally cross-eyed,” observes that when in the presence of God his
vision is clarified and that he sees things in their true proportions. Thus, by
the establishment of what we have called the peace of activity, if in no more
direct way, the friendly presence contributes to intellectual productivity and
to moral guidance. Of all the methods of suppressing evil complexes, the
exorcism effected by a loving presence is the ideal one.
That the blessings secured by rare
human friendship may come, in as full if not fuller measure still, through the
feeling of the presence of divine personages, has been abundantly illustrated
in the preceding biographies. We may bring this subject to a close with two
brief quotations expressive of the peace, of the guidance, and of the power
that is sought in God and Christ by Christians who do not belong to our group
of great mystics. Almost any Christian prayer may serve out purpose—this one by
Cardinal Newman especially well: “ Teach me, O Lord, and enable me to love the
life of saints and angels. Take me out of the languor, the irritability, the
sensitiveness, the anarchy, in which my soul lies, and fill it with Thy
fullness. Breathe on me with that Breath which infuses energy and kindles
fervour1.” Pusey’s supplication differs but little from the preceding
: “ Let me not seek out of Thee what I can find only in Thee, O Lord, peace and
rest and joy and bliss, which abide only in Thine abiding joy. Lift up my soul
above the weary round of harassing thoughts to Thy eternal Presence, . . . That
there I may breathe freely, there repose in Thy love, there be at rest from
myself, and from all things that weary me; and thence return, arrayed with Thy
peace, to do and bear what shall please Thee1.” John Stuart Mill
found in a woman, and after her death in the memory of her, what these persons
sought in God.
* *
1
Mary W. Tileston, Great Souls at Prayer, London, 1904, p.
35. In an interesting “Study of the Psychology of Prayer,” Walter Ranson, in
the Amer. Jour, of the Psychol, of Relig. and Educ., vol. I, emphasizes
the " unification of consciousness through aesthetic contemplation of
God.” The very remarkable success of “ Christian Science ” is mainly due to the
skillful use made in it of means of producing the peace of quietude and of
action. Mrs. Eddy’s cult? addresses itself in a business-like way to the
elimination of anxiety, worry and other negative attitudes, and fosters mental
peace, self-confidence, an^< optimism.
3. The-
Universalization or Socialization of the Individual Will.
Mental unification, a condition of
joyful effectiveness in the struggle for life, is the outcome of a double
process : elimination of the elements of discord and organization of the
others. This process includes what may be called the universalization or
socialization of the individual will; it is commonly spoken of among Christians
as purification, sanctification, thy death of the natural man, etc. Its
social significance is so great and it occupies a place so conspicuous in the
consciousness of our mystics, that we must submit it to some scrutiny.
The mystics have frequently written as
if the elimination or the limitation of the egoistic tendencies was merely a
condition of drawing near to God in order to enjoy divine union. Thus, the best
known of the works of Ruysbroeck, the Ornements des Noces Spirituelles, begins
with twenty-two chapters describing the virtues, the “ ornaments,” needed by
the soul that wishes to meet the Bridegroom. He is exacting : he wishes the
bride to know how to suffer in patience, to be humble and obedient. She is not
to be attached to any individual, above all not to herself; she is to be ready
for all sacrifices and services. She must be sweet and full of compassion,
generosity and gentleness. Calm in all things, she will meet anger with loving
looks and words and deeds of mercy. At the same time, she is to be modest and
temperate, and pure in body and soul. “ Purity of heart signifies that in all
physical temptations or in any prompting of nature, man unhesitatingly turns to
God, abandoning himself to Him with a new confidence, . . . for, to consent to
sin or to a desire of the body, as an animal, is a separation from God1.”
But, taken by themselves, passages
such as these do not fairly represent the mystic’s attitude towards the
problems of conduct. Sanctification is not to be achieved only because it is a
condition of the divine embrace. The mystics realize, with various degrees of
clearness that that would be only another form of selfish indulgence. Since
God, their divine model, is in their eyes the embodiment of all perfections,
likeness to him implies the elimination of all selfishness. Thus, sanctification
is both a part of the ultimate end and a condition of meeting God face to face
and enjoying his love.
There is at bottom entire unanimity
among our mystics with respect to the ethical goal and to its place in the
scheme of things. And the reader who may care will easily find in the preceding
biographies and in that of any other Christian mystic, utterances paralleling
the following of Santa Theresa: “ True perfection consist in the love of God
and of the neighbor. . . . Our rules
1
Noces Spirituelles,
from Maeterlinck’s French translation.
are only means to
attain better that end1.” " Let it be clearly known that the
true love of God does not consist either of sweetness or of that tenderness
which we ordinarily desire because it consoles us, helps us to serve the Lord
in justice with a manly courage and humility. That our Lord should lead by the
path of the inner pleasures weak women lacking courage like myself, well and
good, it may be fitting. . . . But that servants of God, staid, learned, high-minded
men, should feel so much pain when God does not give them any pleasurable
experiences, this indeed disgusts me.” That she loves visions for the enjoyment
that they give her, is evident; but she approves of them because they
contribute to her moral growth. She never tires of showing what high practical
value can be derived from these divine favours. In the light of ecstasy, she
discovers "not only the beams, but also the motes.” In visions God gives
her advice and comfort. The impress of the ineffable beauty of the Man-God
remains in her soul, and her disposition is purified. Then, heroic promises and
resolves spring up. When she wants to justify her high opinion of “ the most
sublime ” of all her visions she says, " its effects are admirable ; it
purifies the soul marvellously and robs sensuality of almost all of its power2.” _
St Theresa is no exception. Whatever
the mystics may say that, seems to subordinate unselfish activity to the
passive enjoyment of God is belied by specific passages such as the above, by
the general trend of their writings, and still more convincingly by their lives
; all of them, so soon as unity was established in their consciousness, have
spent themselves without stint in the service of their fellowmen. The delight
of the ecstatic trance is for them, in final instance, God’s way of encouraging
them to greater effort towards saintliness, of clarifying their moral vision,
and of making of them more useful instruments of divine action.
Both the primacy of the ethical
purpose and the thoroughness with which it must be carried out, come out in
high relief in the sermons of Tauler. He seems to have enjoyed ecstasy a
few times only, nevertheless, and quite properly, he is generally accounted a
great mystic. The ever-recurring theme of his sermons is the replacement of the
egoistic, individual will by the divine Will. Union with God means to him, as
to most Christian mystics, opening a source of energy to be used in the service
of humanity. He is very severe for those who seek first the pleasures of
devotion : “ We must regard the search after warmth of heart in devotion ... as
a lack of
1
Inner Castle, ist
Dwelling, chap. II.
2
Vie, p. 414.
Comp. Francois de Sales in Fortunat Strowski’s Saint Franfois de Sales,
Paris, 1898, p. 263, ff.
spiritual chastity.” And, of the
Beghards, who called themselves Contemplators of God,” he says, " They may
be recognized by the carnal peace which they obtain in making an emptiness in
their souls, believing that to be union with God.”
There are few chapters in thehistory
of humanity more profoundly significant than those relating the heroic effort
to set aside the “ natural ” man, and to establish in his place the divine Will
or, in modern language, the effort to make perfect social beings out of creatures
with .an animal ancestry. That effort in behalf of the universalized
will has appeared in no uncertain manner in everyone of the preceding
biographies.
There is a story of a moral crisis,
falsely reported of Tauler, which we shall nevertheless transcribe because it
brings out excellently the ethical ideal pursued by the great mystics.
The Friends of God, a sect
influential in Tauler’s time along the Rhine valley, remarkable for the purity
of their lives and the simplicity of their worship, regarded him as their
spiritual father and leader. Yet, according to some of them at least, he was
still far from the spiritual goal. A certain Nicholas of Basle, who was of that
opinion, made a moral diagnosis of the great preacher and bluntly communicated
it to him. Here it is in brief: “ You are trusting to your own knowledge and
your own talents.' Instead of loving and seeking only God, you are seeking your
own will. You are attracted to the creature and especially to a certain person
whom you love immoderately. You will find in yourself vanity and love of ease.
You have wasted your time in living for yourself.”
On hearing these accusatory
revelations, Tauler is pictured as throwing himself on his accuser’s neck,
crying out: “ Thou hast held a mirror before my soul, my son. Thou hast
unveiled all my faults ; thou hast told me what was hidden within me, even that
I am attached to a creature. But I tell thee truthfully that I myself did not
know it, and I do not believe that any other human being could know anything
about it. I see quite clearly now that I am a sinner and I am resolved to mend
my ways, though it cost me my life.” And he, the Master, placed himself under
the direction of him whom he called his son.
The task of Nicholas is to bring about
in Tauler a radical transformation : the replacement of the primary,
self-regarding tendencies by a higher principle of life. Tauler must learn to
converse, smile, keep silence, study, preach, in a word live, without
aiming at personal success, without consulting his pleasure, moved by the sole
desire to make the divine Will triumph. To this end, Nicholas puts him under
strict discipline.
The soul of a hero was indeed needed
to endure voluntarily for two years the continual humiliation of the purifying
regimen prescribed for him. Before a year had passed, his convent friends had
come to despise him, and he had been abandoned by his spiritual children.
Finally, after a crisis that need not be related here, Nicholas assured him
that he had at last received the real divine Grace, and added, “ Your teaching,
which formerly came from the flesh, will proceed now from the Holy Spirit.”
The universalization of _the
individual will is, after all, the root of the ethical purpose of Christianity.
It is more than that : it is a tendency generated in man in virtue of his
nature and of the circumstances of social life, and, therefore, it transcends
Christianity. It appears everywhere, in all human communities, in and out of
the religions. The special contribution of the great mystics to the socialization
movement consists in having taken certain Christian principles literally,
without the compromises and approximations so dear to the practical man. They
have believed that the ideal could become the actual; and relentlessly,
heroically, they have striven after complete universalization. Their
undertaking may be regarded as a daring experiment in ethical radicalism.
Nothing in conduct is to them
insignificant : everywhere they perceive the manifestation of one of the two
opposed forces respectively personified as the Evil One and God. Seen from this
naive point-of-view certain incidents in the lives of our mystics, which might
appear puerile or absurd, assume the importance which they themselves ascribed
to them. Mme Guyon was not tilting at windmills when she put herself repeatedly
in a passion of remorse because she had yielded to her desire and that of her
husband to go out in a decollete gown. A trifle such as this assumes the
proportion of a tragedy for him who makes of it a contest between the flesh and
the spirit. The triumph of that desire would prove the subjection of the
spirit; it would be a first step towards surrender to the devil. Similarly,
perhaps, of the strange scene in which the same person takes sputum into her
mouth1. The repulsion she felt at the sight of it, hit her as a
condemnation. It meant the dominance of the flesh, and she could rest satisfied
only when she had proved to herself the mastery of the spirit.
* * *
1 That, and other similar performances, had something irresistibly
alluring for the more unbalanced of the mystics. St Marguerite Marie seems to
have found a perverse enjoyment in them. One should probably relate actions of
this sort to the irresistible impulsive ideas that appear in certain classes of
mental disorders.
The Christian mystics are often
accused of having exerted an anti-social influence. That judgment is based upon
three related characteristics. (1) They lived separated from the rank and file of
their fellow men and in celibacy. (2) They prepared themselves not for life on
this earth, but for its continuation in heaven. (3) They sought the means of
salvation not among men but in God. In. this unfavourable judgment the fact of
primary importance to which the preceding pages are devoted is left out of
consideration: The mystic’s preparation for heaven consists essentially in
making themselves worthy of it. There was no question among them as to whether
salvation was by faith or by works. Salvation began on this earth ; it involved
the transformation of the earthly into a divine man; i.e., the replacement of
the egoistic individual will by the universal Will. And they were not satisfied
with the practice of this theory in cloistered seclusion. When they felt
themselves prepared, they sallied forth as apostles of this eminently social
gospel and spent the remainder of their days preaching the love of the
All-Father and universal brotherhood. No group of men have loved or tried to
love according to a more radically social theory.
The adequacy of their conception of
the divine Will and the possibility of realizing it, are questions of ethical
appreciation and, as such, fall outside our purpose which is the psychological
investigation of mysticism as it is. We shall remark, however, that the
mystical ideal of Nicholas of Basle may seem unrealizable, but that no one who
takes the teaching of Christianity seriously may call it absurd. In a preceding
chapter we came without surprise to the conclusion that, despite the drastic
methods to which they had had recourse, Mme Guyon and St Theresa never reached
their goal, and that the degree of sanctification attained by them did not seem
to have been greater than it is in thousands of other inconspicuous Christians
and non-Christians. The energy of selfassertiveness to which they owe in part
their fame was the main obstacle to the elimination of self-seeking. Not only
did they not reach their goal, but they were not morally clear-sighted enough
to be aware of their failure.
The Analysis of the Morally Imperative
Impulse, and the Conditions of its Production—From the point of view of human development, the most remarkable
aspect of the movement we are studying is that it does not seem to tend to a
better adaptation of the individual to society as it is, but rather to an ideal
community. The accredited theory of development sees, in what is called ''
progress ” an increasing adaptation of the.individual to his smToundings. It is
undeniable that the ordinary man swims complacently with the current; his
concern is adaptation to the existing social order. Here and there, however,
one meets with a man or a group of men who, instead of supinely yielding to
external pressure, stand up against it. The behaviour of these people appears
to be controlled by a creative urge that sets them in opposition to the
existent order. Hardly condescending to accommodate themselves to physical
necessities, they endeavour with relentless tenacity and indomitable energy to
establish a new type of society. This creative force comes to expression
in every society and with particular^a!though perhaps morbid, intensity in
grand mysticism. It is a phenomenon that deserves the attention of the
philosopher who would know the forces that are fashioning human society.
The mystic’s life and death struggle
against the natural man is in part conditioned by the belief that in order to
enter into a H ^blessed relationship with God he must accept his Will as his
own. But the depth of the problem does not appear until we ask how he came to
think that God demands of him something so alien to the more obvious aspects of
his nature as sanctification—something impossible of complete attainment; and
how he came to believe so profoundly in that ideal as to regard no effort
leading to its realization as too great or too painful ? A phenomenon powerful,
persistent, and universal as this one, must, it seems, be an expression of something
fundamental to human nature.
Custom and reverence for holy things
have tended to keep the psychologist away from the consideration of this most
interesting problem. It was supposed to be sufficient to say that man was
driven by the “ Voice of God,” or that in this respect his behaviour was an
inscrutable expression of “ Universal Reason.” Science is now in a position to
remove this phenomenon from the position of splendid isolation it has too long
occupied and assign to it its proper place in human psychology : its
psychological origin, the conditions of its production, and its development can
be traced.
r c/ k/- ? Insistency
and imperativeness are traits belonging not only to moral but also to certain
non-moral tendencies. Illustrative of the latter class are such teasing
experiences as the prompting to get out of bed in order to see whether the gas
is properly turned off. You have just put it out and you know that you have
done so, ■ nevertheless an impulse
to get up in order to verify the fact reappears as often as you dismiss it;
until finally, in order to havepeace, you get up and do the imperative bidding.
In explanation of that type of
non-moral imperative tendency, a Freudian might look for suppressed,
subconscious factors. The probability is, however, that in most cases a purely
physiological cause should be sought. Just as a particular bit of skin may be
in a state of irritation, and, therefore, produce a more or less continuous
tendency to scratching movements, so one may suppose, in the central nervous
system, groups of neurones in a state of abnormal irritability or which have
become open channels of discharge. Thus, in the absence of any
logical cause, a tendency to a particular action and a corresponding system of
ideas might recur insistently.
But the tendencies with which we are
concerned are not only imperative and insistent, they possess also another quality
: they are approved of, they carry with them the sense of duty, of oughtness.
The essential fact is that whereas in the case of non-moral imperatives, the
subject is aware that the prompting is absurd or unnecessary; when the moral
imperative is felt, the action appears as required : it ought to be
performed. The non-moral and the moral imperatives may be equally insistent and
may both seem the expression of an external will; but the second alone receives
the subject’s allegiance. Without it, a prompting is not felt as morally
imperative.
Before we attempt to state the
conditions under which an insistent impulse is felt1 as morally
imperative, let it be definitely understood that we are not concerned with the
conditions of rightness, considered objectively, but only with those producing
the conviction of rightness. This difference is a familiar one. That
which appears as a duty to a person at a particular time, may not appear so to
another, nor even to the same person on another occasion. It is with rightness
as with truth ; the conditions that produce, in any particular situation, an
assurance of truth are not necessarily sufficient to insure the discovery of
the truth.
The specific qualities of the feelings
of rightness and of oughtness are, of course, undescribable. One may seek to
determine the conditions of their production, but the feelings themselves are
simple, immediate data of experience.
An illustration will help us to
realize the nature of the situation which might give rise to a feeling of moral
obligation. Let us suppose that, at night, I am awakened by the coughing of my
brother lying ill in the next room. My first movement may be to go to him in
order to do something for his comfort. But before that action is carried out,
and following upon a more or less obscure apprehension of the
1 We are not concerned with moral judgments in which a course of
conduct is merely classified as belonging to a class we have learned to regard
as right. discomfort of getting
out of bed in the middle of the night in a cold room, an antagonistic impulse,
i.e., a shrinking from getting out of bed, arises. The shrinking has hardly
subsided before a chain of considerations, each with its own tendency to
action, may pass through my mind : My brother might be in real need of
assistance ; if I do not go to him, serious consequences might result; it is
selfish of me to let myself be stopped by the apprehension of discomfort; and
yet, if I rise, I might catch cold, and colds are not to be trifled with ;
etc., etc. The discussion may be brought to an end by a categorical imperative
: “You ought to get up.”
ft might happen that, moved by a
sympathetic impulse, I rise and go to my brother before I have heard the
categorical command. In that case, my kind behaviour would not possess the
quality of a moral imperative. It would be merely an impulsive behaviour— just
as my action in remaining in bed when I shrink from getting up. An original
sense of duty is felt only if the consequences to myself and to my brother,
both of my going and of my not going to him, are passed in review and brought
to a conclusion.
When the consideration of the
consequences of the performance, as well as of the non-performance of the
action, is complete, the resultant tendency to action does necessarily feel
categorically imperative. The expression “ complete ” does not mean that every
consequence must have been thought of and properly evaluated—that would be
possible only to an omniscient being. It means merely that the discussion was
not prematurely brought to an end by an emotional wave, but had been permitted
to develop in an atmosphere of dispassionateness, of objectivity, of
universalized purpose .
If, instead, my intention in the
deliberation had been to ascertain what would most advance my own interest and
to ignore or slight other motives for action—altruistic motives, for instance—
the outcome would not feel morally imperative : I should not have the
conviction that it is the one thing to do. The vaguest awareness
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM
135 of something suppressed, is sufficient to take the sense of duty away from
the decision.
We say, then, that the feeling of
moral obligation necessarily accompanies any tendency to action which is the
outcome of a deliberation from which no impulse has been excluded, i.e., a
deliberation representing the whole man. When this is realised the resultant
prompting cannot feel otherwise than as the one thing to do, since it is
a resultant of all the tendencies present to consciousness.
The quality of the moral imperative
decision described by the traditional expression, “ the still, small voice,”
and the attribution to it of an origin external to man, result naturally enough
from the circumstances of its production ; it lacks the loud, fleshly quality
of decisions taken in the stress of passion ; and it seems external to the
individual, in part because of its dispassionateness and in part because it
proceeds from a universalized purpose. It may well be called the voice of Universal
Reason.
* * *
But the felt duty may not be
performed. Why is it that the conclusion of a dispassionate consideration is
not always carried out ? During the deliberation which may end in a moral
imperative, the contending forces are not present with their full conative and
emotional energy ; they are merely represented. The representation disregards
the intensity of the impulses and desires and takes into account only their
quality, their worth ; it is a qualitative not a quantitative representation of
conative forces. Hence the decision, when it comes, is not of might, but of
right.
The nature of these representatives,
bearers of the qualitative value of impulses and emotional forces, constitute a
difficult problem to which we are not now able to give a solution1.
We must rest content with the affirmation, borne out by introspection, that to
reflect upon a course of conduct with the intention of determining what ought
to be done, implies the endeavour to discover and to evaluate all the thinkable
results of the possible lines of action with respect to everyone affected. Such
appreciation is possible only when, assuming a universalized point of view, the
individual enjoys the freedom and the fairness that come with the silencing of
the passions, and this is equivalent to a displacement of the energy of the
tendencies by their quality-value.
Now, these qualitative substitutes,
although not without some motor energy of their own, are very weak when
compared with the 1 The speech mechanism is assuredly included in
the mechanism of that representation.
power of the impulses and desires they
represent. Nevertheless the decision would usually be carried out if the
subject remained in the attitude of dispassionateness long enough for the
purpose. Unfortunately in most men that state of integration is highly unstable
; it is very easily broken down by any stimulus that sets in activity some
particular tendency. And so it very frequently happens that before the command
can have been executed, the state of dispassionate deliberation has given place
to the ordinary condition in which some particular prompting or group of
promptings lead to action without reference to other promptings.
In order to be carried out,
dispassionate decisions must usually be backed by some of the primary
forces of human nature. When they point to self-sacrifice, they may be
supported by those original, innate, altruistic tendencies most powerfully
expressed in the relation of parents to their children, and by the
self-regarding sentiment in the form which it assumes in civilized persons. In
the course of social development the individual comes to prize the good opinion
of his fellowmen and, therefore, to seek it. For people of high culture it is
the good opinion of only a small class of distinguished persons that matters ;
and, for those of the highest development, it is, above all,
self-approval that is sought—an approval that cap be won
only by conforming to an ideal of the self. Action in accordance with the
dispassionate decision is a developed form of self-affirmation1.
Aspirants to spiritual perfection are actuated mainly by the thought of moral
defeat or victory ; while, at a lower level of development, one may be moved to
action by the thought of physical defeat or victory.
In persons imbued with the Christian
beliefs, the idea of God comes to play in the moral life a role of capital
importance. It is in the last instance the approval of God that the Christian
seeks. How powerfully the idea of God may influence human action when he is regarded
not only as Lawgiver and Judge, but also, and primarily, as the loving
Companion, is proclaimed by the lives of all the great Christians.
* * *
It has already been remarked that the
inner compulsion Jo socialization so dramatically expressed in the lives
of our great mystics, is in disagreement with the overt requirements, of
society.. In this respect their lives, as also that of all those who feel
keenly the moral imperative, does not conform to the current law of
1 For a presentation of the nature and the formation of the
self-regarding sentiment and its function, see Wm. McDougall's Introduction
to Social Psychology, chaps. VII, VIII, and IX.
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM
137 development by adaptation to the milieu. It is rather an adaptation
to inner conditions.
We understand now that what we have
called “ inner adaptation ” consists in a specific organization of the
tendencies present in humannafure. So that from a first stage of mutual
independence, and a second stage of conflict, they become in a third and final’
stage functionally organized and unified on the basis of their social values.
The resultant promptings to action are, then, expressions of a pnified personality
in functional relation with an ideal society. This work of unification
cannot be regarded merely as an adaptive response to external stimuli; it
betrays the presence of inner constructive forces—forces which result in an
alteration of the social order.
* * *
4. The Sex-Impulse.
Sex which, with food and
self-affirmation is man’s chief concern, could not in principle remain
disconnected from religious life since the religions are methods of maintaining
and enhancing life. They separate themselves from secular life not so much by
their purpose as by the means they use in order to realize them. That which
secular life would obtain by natural, human means, the religions seek by
appealing to superhuman, divine agents.
The more striking of the many
historical connexions of sex with religion are these three : (1) In early
religions the procreating power is worshipped in gods regarded as its
embodiment. (2) Virginity is sacrificed to gods in order to secure their
favour. (3) Virginity and continence are enforced either, again, as a sacrifice
pleasing to the gods or because indulgence in the pleasures of the flesh is
regarded as the root of great moral evils.
From these connexions of sex with
religion a great variety of ceremonies and customs, some of them abhorrent to
the civilized conscience, have developed. Sex factors are sufficiently in
evidence in religious life to have led careless or ignorant writers to affirm
that the whole of it is of sexual origin. It would not be any falser to say
that the only need of man is that of sex.
We are concerned in this section with
the sexual instinct as it manifests itself in Christian mysticism only. The
recognized connexion of that masterful instinct with Christian mysticism is
twofold : the Christian God is conceived of as a God of love, and chastity and
continence are regarded as states of perfection. The conjunction of these two
beliefs leads of necessity to conflicts which can be kept within bounds only in
normal, well-balanced persons.
A discussion of sexual matters in
connexion with religion may be offensive to some readers ; and yet, there is no
avoiding it in a study
of grand mysticism. These readers may
in the end find themselves in possession of valuable light; in any case our
task is clear, and all that may be asked of us is that we should not
unnecessarily insist upon certain unpleasant facts which have to be mentioned
in order to make clear the role of sex in mystical religion.
The theses which we shall maintain is
that the delights said by our great mystics to transcend everything which the
world and the senses can procure, involve some activity of the sexual organs.
In order to establish that thesis we shall have to show among other things that
there exists a connexion between the emotions of affection and love, on the one
hand, and sexual activity on the other ; and that the sex organs may be aroused
to a considerable degree without the person becoming aware of their
participation.
The connexion of affection and love
with organic sex activity.—(a) We
shall begin with the formulation of what is held in common by practically all
the specialists in sex psycho-physiology. The theories of Joanny Roux, of
Albert Moll, of Havelock Ellis, and of Sigmund Freud agree together and differ
from the popular view in that they give to the sexual impulse a basis much
wider than the sex organs proper1. According to these theories, the
original source of that impulse comes from the organism as a whole. As the body
matures, and especially at the time of puberty, it becomes more and more
narrowly connected with the organs of reproduction.
The facts which have led to this
conception are numerous and in no way equivocal. Many of them have been known
for centuries. Here are the most noteworthy of them : the removal of the ovaries
in women does not usually do away either with sexual desire or sexual pleasure.
In some instances these are increased by that operation. Frequently also the
sexual impulse persists after the menopause. There are, furthermore, a number
of cases on record in which, in the congenital absence of all the sexual
secretory organs connected with the sex functions, the sexual desire has
nevertheless appeared2.
In man the facts are quite parallel:
the removal of the testicles after puberty does not take away either sexual
desire or enjoyment. The earlier the castration, the less marked the sexual
desire ; but even when castration is performed in early infancy sexual desire
may develop. It is also well-known that voluptuous feelings are experienced by
young children long before puberty, and that the
1
A fuller discussion of the theories of Moll and of Ellis may be
found in the latter’s Studies in the Psychology of Sex, vol. Ill,
section I. For Freud’s theory see Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex,
New York, 1916. For the theory of Roux, see Psychologic de I’Instinct
Sexuel.
2
Cases observed by Colman, Clara Barrus, and others, are reported
by Ellis, Ibid., pp. 11-2.
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM 139
evil of abnormal sex gratification extends to children hardly out of the cradle1.
The preceding information indicates
that the sex-impulse has a much wider origin than the one ascribed to it when
it is regarded as attached exclusively to the function of the essential organs
of procreation. According to this view the sex-impulse, the libido of
the Freudians, is originally a function of the whole body. Even when, in the
course of animal development, it becomes especially connected with certain
parts of the body, it remains nevertheless, in some degree connected with the
whole organism. It is with sex very much as with hunger. At the beginning of
animal life, no specialized organs of nutrition exist; every part of the body
absorbs and digests food. Gradually, these functions are surrendered to
specially adapted organs from which now proceed the more obvious
hunger-sensations. Nevertheless the rest of the body has remained to some
extent sensitive to the need for food and may, up to a certain point, be
satisfied without the intervention of the special apparatus provided for the
purpose .
(b)
Sexual excitement appears primarily as a consequence of internal
bodily activity and of external stimulation (contact, odour, sight). In
civilized man, however, sexual desire is almost as effectively aroused by
representations and ideas as by actual sensations. And, because of the richness
of his mental associations, the number of objects perceived, or merely thought
of, which can lead to thoughts of sex, is almost unlimited.
(c)
Ideas are not only sufficient in man to awaken amorous desires,
but they may adequately replace the physical stimuli and lead to the orgasm
itself. That which has happened to nearly everyone in sleep, is a familiar
instance in point. There are persons in whom, even in waking life, the sexual
orgasm takes place in the
absence of any appreciable external
physical intervention. Ellis reports the case of a man of fifty-seven, a
somewhat eccentric preacher : “ My whole nature,” writes this man, “ goes out
so to some persons, and they thrill and stir me so that I have had emission
while sitting by them with no thought of sex, only the gladness of soul found
its way out thus, and a glow of health suffused the whole body. There was no
spasmodic conclusion but a pleasing, gentle sensation as the few drops of semen
passed.” Ellis suggests that it was not semen, but prostatic fluid. “ This
man’s condition may -certainly be considered somewhat morbid; he is attracted
to both men and women, and the sexual impulse seems to be irritable and weak;
but a similar state of things exists often in normal women probably because of
sexual repression, and in individuals who are in a general state of normal
health. Schrenck-Notzing knows a lady who is “ spontaneously sexually excited
on hearing music or seeing pictures without anything lascivious in them ; she
knows nothing of sexual relationship. Another lady is sexually excited on
seeing beautiful and natural scenes, like the sea. . . . Such cases are far
from rare1.”
A sufficient acquaintance with facts that
come to the knowledge only of diligent students of the sexual fife establishes
the conviction that the sexual organs respond in some degree to all tender
thoughts, with a certainty and delicacy which will appear impossible to those
not well informed. Even the most chaste thoughts of love, those of the mother
for her infant and the pressing of it to her breast, awaken the activity of the
sexual organism. There are, however, very great individual differences in the
intensity of that reverberation. This statement may be made more credible by
the mention of experiments in which Mosso demonstrated
that, in a normal person, almost any perceived stimulus, and invariably those
producing
1 Havelock Ellis, Auto-Erotism : a psychological study, the
Alienist and Neurologist, April, 1898.
A case similar to the above is
reported by R. Dupouy in the Jour, de Psychologic Normale et Pathologique,
vol. II, 1905, 421-3. Before she had become a kleptomaniac, Hdlene M. had found
an increasing pleasure in handling large sums of money, depositing it in the
bank or spending it. Her husband was in business. She would beg of him not to
pay by cheque in order that she might not lose the delicious shock of counting
out the money—a delight which became each day more exquisite. She came to
experience the same delight later on, after the loss of her husband and of her
fortune, when she had become kleptomaniac. On stealing, for instance, a piece
of lace she would feel a great satisfaction, her heart would beat violently and
her respiration be impeded. She compares her sensations to the great joys of
former times when paying large bills. This person was aware of the
participation of her genitals in her enjoyment.
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM
141 emotion, caused contractions of the bladder, contractions of which the
subject was unaware.
(<7) The subject of the voluptuous
excitement may not be aware of the participation of his sex-organs and may,
therefore, regard his delight as “ spiritual.”
Very coarse manifestations of sex
regarded as “ spiritual happiness ” may be witnessed in persons mentally
deficient. For several years Pierre Janet had under his observation a
remarkable psychopathic woman in whom this connexion was evident. She enjoyed
frequent ecstatic trances, described by her in terms customary with the great
mystics ; I have “ enjoyments which, outside of God, it is impossible to know.
. . . Earth becomes for me in truth the vestibule of Heaven, I enjoy in advance
its delights. ... I would like to be able to communicate my joy. . . . My
impressions are too violent and I find it difficult to hold in check my
happiness1. . . .”
“ In many hysterical and psychically
abnormal women,” writes Ellis, “ auto-erotic phenomena and sexual phenomena
generally, are highly pleasurable, though they may be quite innocent of any
knowledge of the erotic character of the experience. I have come across
interesting and extreme examples of this in the published experiences of the
women followers of the American religious leader, T. L. Harris, founder of the
' Brotherhood of the New Life.’ Thus, in a pamphlet entitled Internal
Respiration, by Respiro, a letter is quoted from a lady physician, who
writes, ‘ One morning, I awoke with a strange new feeling in my womb, which
lasted for a day or two ; I was so very happy, but the joy was in my womb, not
in my heart.’ ‘ At last,’ writes a lady quoted in the pamphlet, ‘ I fell into a
slumber, lying on my back, with arms and feet folded, a position I almost
always find myself in when I awake, no matter in which position I may go to
sleep. Very soon I awoke from this slumber with a most delightful sensation,
every fibre tingling with an exquisite glow of warmth. I was lying on my left
side (something I am never able to do), and was folded in the arms of my
counterpart. Unless you have seen it, I cannot give you an idea of the beauty
of his flesh ; and with what joy I beheld and felt it. • Think of it, luminous
flesh ; oh, such tints, you never could imagine without seeing it,’ etc.2”
1
Une Extatique, Bull, de I’Institut. Psychol. International, 1901, p. 230. The sexual connexion to which I allude above was
mentioned to me by the author himself.
2
Auto-Erotism, ibid.,
pp. 20-1 of reprint.
We call attention, in the last two
quotations, to the sensuous beauty that seems to invest most objects. It is a
phenomenon not infrequent after intense
Among my correspondents, an unmarried
woman (No. 120), reports that feelings connected with her love-affairs,
regarded at one time as religious, she now knows to have been of sexual origin.
She was assisted in that discovery by the reading of various women mystics and
especially by Maudsley’s Mind and Body. At first, she was “ rather
horrified,” but now she is not only reconciled to that connexion, but thinks it
natural and beautiful.
The preceding instances show what
degree of blindness may normally exist in women regarding the participation of
sex in matters of religion. Should one be tempted to ascribe to profound
stupidity the failure to recognize the sexual connexion of certain “ spiritual
transports,” the case of Mlle Ve (soon to be set forth)1 would be
enough to undeceive. The participation of the senses, though obvious when once
recognized, may be overlooked even by persons of keen intelligence given to the
habit of self-observation, as was Mlle Ve. In men there are evident
physiological reasons that render the participation \ of the senses more
difficult to overlook.
(e) Before passing to the application
to our group of mystics of what we have just learnt, it remains to be said that
auto-erotic phenomena are obviously much more likely to occur in persons
deprived of normal sexual satisfaction than in others. The opinion of
specialists in this matter is that, barring an extremely small number of
abnormal persons, when the free play of sexual impulses is restrained, “
auto-erotic phenomena inevitably spring up on every side
.” " Such manifestations are liable to occur in a specially
marked manner in the years immediately following the establishment of puberty
,” and with greatest
frequency in young girls innocent and unperverted
. They are, indeed,
clearly enough aware of some need, of something lacking; but what it is, they
know not—not
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM
143 even when they call it love. Amiel, the philosopher, suffering from the
gnawing of dyspepsia, thought it meant the absence.of God. Similarly do the
mystics and many others, urged by a starved body, cry to Heaven for solace and
peace.
Auto-erotism in grand mysticism.—The great mystics united in themselves all or most of the
conditions which we have just seen to be favourable to the induction of
auto-erotic phenomena. They were young and had either never become acquainted
with the sexual relation, or, after a brief and unsatisfactory if not frigid
practice of it, had lived in abstinence. At the same time, and without being
aware of it, they were sexually excited by their " spiritual ” love for
Jesus or the Virgin Mary; and also, in most cases, for persons of the
opposite sex. St Francis was attached to Santa Clara ; Suzo to Elizabeth
Staglin ; Francois de Sales to Mme de Chantal; Mme Guyon to Father la Combe ;
etc. Moreover, their temperament favoured the appearance of auto-suggestive
phenomena.
The intensity and the concreteness of
the felt presence of the divine object of their love should not be lost sight of
in this connexion. Jgsusor the Virgin were not to them simply ideas; they acquired
_at times, in particular during the ecstasy, the concreteness pf a bodily
presence.
The quality of Suzo’s relation with
the Ewige Weisheit appears in this account of a memorable evening spent
with " spiritual daughters ” in the seclusion of a monastery. He was
discoursing with them on the ordinary theme ; and, as he says in his quaint
speech, “ Eternal Love was making love to them.” “ As they left him, his
(Suzo’s) heart was, I know not how, heated by his yearning discourse upon
divine love.” And, as he was in meditation upon this matter, he lost his senses
and had a vision : ‘‘A stately youth from Heaven led him by the hand upon a
beautiful green meadow. Then the youth brought forth a song in his heart, so
winsome that it deprived him of all his senses because of the excessive power
of the beautiful melody; and his heart was so full of burning love and yearning
for God that it beat wildly as if it would break, and he had to put his right
hand on it in order to control it, and tears were rolling down his cheeks.” At
the same time, “ he saw the Mother with her child, the Eternal Wisdom, against
her heart; and he saw written this word : Herzentraut, i.e., * Beloved
of my Heart .
Most people are familiar with the
extravagant carnal imagery used by the mystics to describe their intense
enjoyment of divine love. Make whatever allowance seems proper for the accepted
habit of speaking of sacred things in terms of profane love ; yet, this query
remains : Is the flesh likely to remain unmoved when continence is combined
with familiarity with a loved woman and with indulgence in the imagery dear to
the libertine ?
Santa Theresa relates that she wrote
her Memoirs against her inclination, at the direction of her
ecclesiastical superiors. How much she and they suppressed is not known. There
remains, however enough to indicate, it seems to us, the participation of the
organs of sex in the extraordinary enjoyment of union with the heavenly
Bridegroom. On several occasions she had the vision of an angel who “ held in
his hands a long golden dart, tipped with fire.” She relates that “ from time
to time he would plunge it through my heart, and push it down into my bowels. As
he withdrew the dart, it seemed as if the bowels would be torn away with it;
and this would leave me aflame with divine love1.” This voluptuous
pleasure was associated with a strange pain ; it was both an “ indicible martyr
” and “ les plus suaves delices.” “ It was not a bodily, but a spiritual
pain, although the body participated in it to a high degree. There takes place,
then, between the soul and God such a sweet lovetransaction that it is
impossible for me to describe what passes
.” The experiences reported above, of members of the “ Brotherhood
of the New Life,” do not differ materially from those of Santa Theresa.
She was not only surprised at these
experiences, but she feared that they were not what she had taken them to be,
and she tried, but in vain, to eliminate them : “ I saw that in spite of my
effort I was powerless before these great love-transports, and they became for
me an object of fear. The pleasure and the pain they gave me simultaneously was
for me a mystery. My reason was baffled by the conjunction of a spiritual pain
so excessive and a happiness so ravishing
.” When, however, Peter of
Alcantara assured her that these experiences were from God, she gave herself up
to them unreservedly.
This mixture of exquisite pain with
incomparable delight is usual in mystical love-ecstasy. The pain, as much as
the pleasure, indicates
THE
MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM 145 most probably, as we shall see, the
participation of sex organs tormented by an insufficient stimulation.
Of Catherine of Genoa it is related
that, when at prayer, “ she received suddenly a love-wound in her heart that
put her beside herself; she was like a crazed person seeking relief for the
ardour of her wound. And, one day, astonished and afraid, having asked God for
the cause of this wound that burned her heart, she felt herself tenderly drawn
upon the bosom of Jesus crucified, and there she learned that it was from the
sacred heart of Jesus that issued the flames that were consuming her own heart1.”
St Marguerite Marie provides as lurid
a picture as can be imagined of a virgin sexually excited from childhood by
repeated vows of chastity to Christ, her bridegroom, and by the constant
consciousness of his loving presence. Her case is clearly one of erotomania.
Ged rewards her for a repulsive act of self-mastery by keeping her mouth ‘ ‘
glued to his sacred heart during two or three hours of the following night.”
There was no rest for her, day or night, from divine love. “ The more she
progressed, the more this love of God consumed her. Her delicate constitution
could not endure such emotions. Lean, pale, almost transparent, as if through
her flesh one could see the flame of the spirit, she realized more and more the
song of her novitiate :
" I
am a harassed doe.
Ardently
seeking cool waters.
The hand
of the hunter has wounded me ;
The dart
has reached to my very heart .”
In the intensity of a tormenting
love-passion, Mme Guyon does not remain far behind the worse examples of the “
love of God.” She would tell God that she loved him “ more passionately than
the most passionate lover ever loved his mistress
.” Made frantic by excess
of love, or, rather, not obtaining full satisfaction, she would at times, cry
out: “ Oh, my Love, this is enough—leave me3.” Meanwhile, she was
insistently trying to persuade her husband “ that true conjugal love is that
which you yourself, O God, create in the heart that loves you3.” The
husband remained incredulous. Throughout
1 Quoted in Histoire de la Bienheureuse Marguerite Marie
Alacoque, by Mgr E. Bougaud, p. 201, 10th edition.
her writings, one feels the ardour of
an unsatisfied passion. “ I crave,” she exclaims, “ the love that thrills and
burns and leaves one fainting in a inexpressible joy and pain1.”
And, after God’s response, still trembling in every limb, she would say to him,
“ O God, if you would permit sensual people to feel what I feel, very soon they
would leave their false pleasures in order to enjoy so real a blessing1.”
It may cause some surprise that a
woman frigid with her husband, as was Mme Guyon, experienced, nevertheless, the
voluptuous sensations she describes. Her irresponsiveness to the conjugal
caresses might appear as an argument against the sexual nature of her delights.
But it is one of the facts well established by the literature on sex that
frigidity in the normal sex-relation does not preclude intense enjoyment in
consequence of other than normal exciting causes. Enough has already been said
in this chapter to satisfy the reader on this point.
The obvious role played by persons of
the male sex in the production of her love-trances makes the case of Mme Guyon
particularly useful for the elucidation of the topic under discussion. We have
already sufficiently stressed the conjunction of her first love ecstasy with
the visit of a sympathetic Franciscan monk, and that of her second violent
outbreak of love-passion with the renewal of her acquaintance with Father la
Combe. She was rapt up in him to the extent of finding it impossible to live away
from him. In her devotions, la Combe and Christ became one ; it was this dual
being that was present in her amorous trances.
The only fact which we shall add to
the preceding in order to complete the demonstration of the participation of
sex in the spiritual enjoyment of God is provided by Mlle Ve, a contemporary of
Protestant belief whose experience's have been admirably described by her and
commented upon by Th. Flournoy. Despite the deepest aversion she had to
recognize the participation of sex in ecstatic trances which had been for her a
revelation of the love of God.
The life of Mlle Ve was a long, secret
tragedy—the tragedy of the woman with irresistible sex and parental instincts
who is denied the satisfaction of marriage. At fifty years of age, her trials
almost over, she wrote these revelatory lines : “ The beast is not altogether
dead in me ; despite my fifty years, she breaks out still, with some violence,
To say the truth, I am not reconciled at reaching the end of my life without
ever having had ‘my day,’ the day of happiness and 'enjoyment to which, it
seems, every human being has a
1 These quotations are drawn from chap. X of the Life.
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM
147 right1-” " I can appreciate the attraction that the theory
of the right to sexual satisfaction has for so many women (a theory detestable
in principle) ; but it is not merely a question of pleasure, it is one of the
legitimate satisfaction of an instinct the more powerful that it is bound up with
that of maternity. There are moments in my life, when I cannot take in my arms
a little child without risk of breaking into sobs. There is in the contact of
the little trustful body, the caresses of the little hands, a something which
reawakens in me a passionate sorrow2.”
If Mlle Ve discovered what others do
not suspect, it is perhaps because her sexual life was more intense, because
she was more enlightened than the mystics of the past, and especially perhaps
because she was superior to them in scientific curiosity and independence of
judgment.
Despite the best and firmest
principles and intelligent efforts to live according to them, her sexual
impulses found throughout her life objectionable expressions. One of her
adventures not only illustrates but also throws light upon the relation between
sexual vice and religion, a relation about which much has been written : “ I
have been very much concerned with the relation, still so strange to me,
between the religious emotion, very pure, very lofty, and sexual excitation. A
page of my life striking in that respect came back to me. In 1892, shortly
after my return to my native country, the moral and religious life reawakened
in me with great intensity. During several years I was interested in religious
subjects only, finding all my pleasure in religious meetings,” At that time,
she formed a friendship with a former schoolmate, who was soon carried away by
“ the same religious whirlwind ” as herself. An intense interest in missions
spread among the young people of her circle. She decided to offer herself for
service in India. Her friend was the sole confidant of her intention. "
The anticipation on an imminent and perhaps final separation brought to a
paroxysm our passionate attachment. It became a real debauch (debordement).
I gave up the project, for it seemed to me impossible to go so faraway from
her. It was not long after that we felt the fearful moral danger in our
affection ; our special religious point of view led us to see in our intimate
relation a monstrous sin'. . . . Horribly miserable one
1
Th. Flournoy, Une Mystique Moderne, Archives de Psychol, de la
Suisse Romande, vol. XV, 1915, p. 149.
Mlle Ve’s account is fearlessly frank.
She was writing to one whom she regarded as her moral director. He obtained
permission to offer this moral nude to the attention of the scientific world. I
transcribe parts of her confession the more willingly that it may help to
produce a compassion and a helpfulness greatly needed.
2
Ibid., p. 188.
in the other, and yet absolutely
incapable to part, the winter was, for us, one of suffering and humiliation, as
well as of intense enjoyment. I do not remember exactly how that phase of our
intimacy ended; but it gradually became normal again and survived the storm
that might have destroyed it1.”
Many years later, she became entangled
in a friendship with a married man. It had begun quite honorably, but her heart
and her senses had gradually become engaged until she felt herself powerless to
resist longer. It was in the hope of help in this situation and also in a
search for deliverance from attacks of auto-erotism that she appealed to
Professor Flournoy.
We shall reserve for another place the
account of the origin of her religious ecstasies. It will be sufficient to say
here that although not naive in sex-matters, she remained for a while unaware
of the connexion existing between her ecstasies and her sexual cravings. She
realized very early, however, and with much surprise, that the terms fitting
best these experiences were those used for human passion. Describing the Ninth
Ecstasy, she says : “ A kind of languor coursed through my blood (I was going
to use the term voluptuousness, but it has a carnal meaning which I dislike). .
. . I felt most of all my weakness, my powerlessness, and the uselessness of any
attempt at resistance ; and also that curious impression of being surrounded by
something at once violent and tender. I understood now that the mystics of the
Middle Ages could compare their ecstasies, altogether spiritual, to the
enjoyment and the embraces of human love. Those are certainly the symbols
(could I bring myself- to use them) which best fit, not the experience at the
moment of contact, but the sensations that follow or precede it and that
ultimate impression of the aim reached, of fulfilment {■point final) .”
Not long after writing these fines the
participation of sex in what she had thought ” altogether spiritual,” forced
itself upon her reluctant observation. In the Twelfth Ecstasy, the beast, “ the
creature made out of passion never satiated,” broke her chain with consequences
that could no longer be overlooked; " I hardly dare put this down,” she
confesses ; “ I do it only because of the engagement I made with myself to be
entirely truthful in these descriptions
.”
1 Th. Flournoy, Une Mystique Moderne, Archives de Psychol, de la
Suisse Romande, vol. XV, 1915, p. 188-9.
Nevertheless, on a subsequent day, she
sought to escape from the, to her, dreadful significance of the fact she had
observed. She wanted, at any cost, to keep the precious " experience of
the divine,” pure from every sensual admixture. But the fact, once seen, could
no longer be concealed. In the end she did as our correspondent quoted above
but without so good a grace, for she was of a puritanic temper : she accepted the
fact as a mystery of human nature1.
With this connexion made manifest,
Mlle Ve’s interest in her trances decreased. When, in addition, she realized
clearly that the Power revealed to her was not the divine, personal
being she needed, her extraordinary trances soon came to an end. She returned
to a more ordinary form of piety, i.e., to the fellowship with God usual among
devout Christians.
Cursed as she was by that which in a
normal life would have been a blessing, she nevertheless did not bring religion
to shame as so many others less intelligent and of coarser fibre have done
.
* * *
The excruciatingly delightful pains
and other pains.—The
reader can hardly have failed to notice with surprise the presence in the divine
love-ecstasy of “ supremely delightful pains.” This phenomenon can be
understood only when the share taken by the sexual organism in the divine union
is recognized. But we must separate from these curious pains, bodily pains that
bear no relation to the love-ecstasy.
In hysterical attacks and in attacks
simulating hysteria, there appears frequently more or less well localized and
violent pains. St Theresa, Mme Guyon, St Catherine of Genoa, St Marguerite
Marie, and others, complained at
divers moments of intense pains apparently belonging to that category. The
first mentions, for instance, during her first great illness, “ pains about the
heart so acute that it seemed at times as if it was being torn to pieces by
sharp teeth.” She suffered also from an “ internal fire,” and from “ contractions
of the nerves so intolerable ” that she had rest neither day nor night, etc.
Pains much less intense and not definitely
localized are experienced also during the period of dryness. One should, of
course, not confuse these “ physical ” pains with painful conditions of
psychical origin—for instance, the distress of thinking oneself abandoned by
God.
The mystics were at a loss to describe
the other pains, those that are a constituent part of the love-ecstasy. They
possess apparently contradictory qualities : they are delightful pains.
After what we have learned, we shall have little trouble in recognizing their
source in an insufficient, tantalising, sexual excitement that does not come to
a head, does not reach the “point final,” to use a significant
expression of Mlle Ve. In Inner Castle St Theresa describes the
experience thus : “ Often when the soul least expects it, our Lord calls her
suddenly. She hears very distinctly that her God calls her, and it gives her
such a start, especially at the beginning, that she trembles and utters
plaints. She feels that an ineffable wound has been dealt her, and that wound
is so precious in her sight that she would like it never to heal. She knows
that her divine Spouse is near her, although He does not let her enjoy His
adorable presence, and she cannot help complaining to Him in words of love. In
this pain, she relishes a pleasure incomparably greater than in the Orison of
Quietude (a lower stage in the Ascent of the Soul, i.e., a condition less
removed from normal consciousness) in which there is no admixture of pain. The
voice of the Well-Beloved causes in the soul such transports that she is
consumed by desire, and yet does not know what to ask, because she sees clearly
that her Lord is with her. What pain could she have ? And for what greater
happiness could she wish ? To this I do not know what to answer ; but that of
which I am certain, is that the pain penetrates down to the very bottom of the
bowels and that it seems that they are being torn away when the heavenly Spouse
withdraws the arrow with which he has transpierced them. As long as that pain
lasts, it is always on the increase or on the decrease, it never remains at the
same intensity. It is for that reason that the soul is never entirely on fire ;
the spark goes out and the soul feels a desire stronger than ever to endure
again the love-pain she has just experienced1.”
We must surrender to the evidence :
the virgins and the unsatisfied wives who undergo the repeated “ love-assaults
of God ” until they are, in their own extravagant way of speech, “ on the point
of death,” who complain that it is enough and beg of him to let them go for
awhile2, suffer from nothing else than intense attacks -of
erotomania, induced by their organic need and the worship of the God of
love .
The production of an inordinate degree
of sexual excitement is greatly favoured by the semi-trance condition during
which it happens. The more or less considerable obfuscation of self-consciousness
deprives the organism of the higher mental control. The subject is in a
condition similar to that of sleep when instinctive activities are left in a
large measure to their own doings, and thoughts which could not abide the full
light of consciousness are in possession of the mind.
If, in his Assent to God, and while
only partly self-conscious, the very mechanism of procreation is aroused
unknown to himself, the mystic can hardly be blamed. The very mystics who have
suffered violent sexual excitement have spoken with a convincing naivete
against fleshly indulgence. On this point we have already quoted
1
Inner Castle, Sixieme Demeure, chap. II, pp. 413-5, abbreviated. Comp. chap. XI, pp. 497-8. H.
Delacroix has understood these pains in another way. See loc. cit., pp.
65-7. He deals with Les Peines Mystiques in chap. X of his book.
3
See, in this connexion, the biographical sketch of Saint
Marguerite Marie, in this book.
St Theresa and also Tauler, whose
sentence against carnal indulgence in religious worship may be repeated here :
“ We must regard the search after warmth of heart in devotion . . . as a lack
of spiritual chastity1.” The great preacher of Strasburg did not,
probably, recognize that the connection between so-called platonic or Christian
love and sex-love is an expression of human nature itself : affection and
devotion have developed together with or, rather, had their cradle in sex-love
and the care of the young.
The wonderful transforming effect of a
lofty interpretation should not be overlooked in this connexion. .No pleasure
is in itself base_or_debasing. It is only through its direct effect upon the
body or through the meaning or significance ascribed to it, that it may become
so. In so far as a pleasurable state is interpreted as an effect of the divine
Presence, it becomes a source of moral energy even though it should arise from
the stimulation of the sex-organs.
The great mystics have been in respect
of love, as also in other respects, daring experimenters. And here, as with
regard to moral perfection, and just as unavoidably, they have partly failed.
Their aim involved the separation of organic sex activities from feelings and
behaviour originally linked with them. In this attempt they were following a
tradition older than Christianity. The Greeks had already sought to divorce
what has been called platonic love
from sex satisfaction. That effort marks one
of the most significant trends of modem development. It constitutes a part of a
general effort to transform original, “ animal,” man into a higher, “ divine,”
being. It manifests itself with respect to all the primary instincts. With
regard to fear, for instance, humanity is engaged in an effort to eliminate or,
at least, to control the original instinctive reactions to danger in order to
be able to treat each particular danger in a fitting way. A being as
intelligent as man is, can do better than meet every kind of danger in the
uniform, blind ways of the animal, i.e., either by running off in a panic or by
turning to stone on the spot. Therefore he endeavours to free himself from the
undesirable parts of
1 Comp, utterances of Molinos on this subject in the Spiritual
Guide, pp. 76, 86-8. Edition without date or name of publisher.
THE MOTIVATION OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM 153
the original reaction and to remain mentally alert so that he may best adapt
his conduct to the particular danger to which he may find himself exposed.
Pleasure and happiness in mystical
ecstasy.—The preceding pages are
not to be understood as meaning that the delights experienced by the mystics
are all of sexual origin. Pleasure has other sources besides that connected
with sex. One should in particular separate happiness from pleasure, for these
words designate affective experiences possessing altogether different
significance.
The sensory pleasures are at the
bottom of the scale. Some of them are dependent upon the stimulation of sense
organs. To this class belong the pleasures of touch, of taste, of sound, of
sight, of movement, as well as pleasurable states of more obscure origin
involving the activity of the viscera. The pleasure of sex, in so far as it
depends upon the stimulation of the sex-organs, belongs also in this class.
Among the sensory pleasures, those
produced by the stimulation of the sense organs of the skin and of the muscles
and tendons are of particular interest to us. The satisfaction which follows a
warm bath and physical exercise, is due in large part to the stimulation of
these sense organs. The effect of tickling, of scratching itching parts, of
massaging and stroking, is at times comparable for its intensity and
voluptuousness with the pleasures of sex. Massaging and stroking may induce
widespread tensions similar to the general erethism of sexual excitement.
Stretching also is, under certain circumstances, intensely pleasurable. Many
years ago we reported a striking observation which may well be reproduced here.
On rising in the morning, we had felt unwell; strange little shivers, not at
all unpleasant, passed down the spine and along the legs and arms. They left in
their wake sensations that invited to stretching, and every stretching of the
arms, legs and torso, yielded a voluptuous pleasure
. This continued for a few
hours and then gave place to general discomfort. At lunch time we had to go to
bed, and for two weeks were kept indoors by a bad attack of the grippe.
There is another group of pleasurable
states, never reaching the intense voluptuousness of the former, yet deeply
enjoyable and satisfying. We allude to the affective consequence of the
stimulation, no longer merely of sense organs, but of organized
action-mechanisms (reflexes, instincts, innate tendencies, habits).
Happiness, as used both in common
speech and in psychology, denotes a pleasurable condition dependent upon the
attainment of what the individual considers of most importance to him, or a
satisfactory progress towards that attainment. It implies a high degree of
unification of tendencies and purposes. Perfect happiness results from
the free, harmonious working .of the whole being towards an inclusive purpose.
Between the significance of happiness as here defined, and that of the
pleasures of taste, of tickling, of muscle stretching, and the like, there is
little similarity1.
Now the mystic, in his search for
divine love, has discovered that remarkable method of worship called the Ascent
of the Soul to God. In it he finds a variety of sensory pleasures, those of
relaxation, and at times of general erethism'; of bright visions, of
anaesthesias, and, eclipsing all these, pleasures and pains of sexual origin,
delightful beyond anything else known to them. That is already much, yet he
gets a great deal beyond that, things more directly to his purpose. For the
mystic’s purpose is far from being attained when he has secured the pleasures
just named. During the moments that precede the extinction of consciousness in
the trance, and afterwards as long as its influence lasts, he enjoys also
happiness. It is a happiness due to the satisfaction of fundamental tendencies
and needs. We know that before entering a holy life, our mystics were not
content with existence as it was for them ; they felt needs that were not
satisfied, and conceived ideals that could not be realized. Some of them were
cruelly wounded in their self-esteem and, although married, were denied the
spiritual as well as the physiological satisfaction of intimate companionship
with a person admired, loved, and loving. In the mystical union they found a
Presence that satiated the desires for self-esteem and self-affirmar tion, for
affection and self-surrender, for intellectual harmony and moral perfection.
They found or thought they had found the
1 Reacting against the theory that would see in the enjoyment of
ecstasy merely an expression of auto-erotism, P. Janet has emphasized the
enjoyment that comes to his neurasthenic patients from a simplification and
unification of the mental life. He has shown how, in many instances, with the
disappearance of mental conflicts and the return of what he has called the “ sentiment
du riel" peace, self-confidence, and happiness have returned. But the
share that sexual excitement assumes at the culmination of the beatific state
of certain of his ecstatics must not be left out of consideration. On this
point we have already said enough.
fulfilment of all their yearnings. And
when they had returned to normal consciousness, they rejoiced in the momentous
assurance of feeling so
unusual, that I transcribe brief portions of it. When the mystic seeks the love
of God, he is moved by the very same forces that find expression here. They are
forces certainly not independent of the sex-impulse.
Sept. 23.—I often am filled
with a passionate yearning for someone here to lavish my love upon and who
would love me in return . . . Ah, that the days would come again when she (a
sister) would pull my hair and run off with. my things 1 I wish she would
prattle to me like so many children can. What would I not give for one gentle
little fairy to come gliding into this old teacher’s room [he is about 21 years
old] after my day's work is done and stroke my face and talk to me about her
little joys and troubles and draw me to sympathize with her, and play tricks on
me, and kiss me 1 But ah ! it cannot be—life’s hard lines forbid it. However, I
see only too clearly what I want. I want a powerful religion to absorb my whole
nature and to make me thankful for what I have got and for what I do see of
these dear little ones, and to make me love God in the highest, and work for
Him.
Oct. 3.—[Mary, eleven years old, and
Betty, together with grown ups, are at tea with him.] I ignored the presence of
all but Mary. I suppose the others were well supplied. I know Mary was. I
suppose the rest were in the room all the while, I know Mary was. The other may
have talked, may have smiled, I know Mary did! In fact that tea-time may be
summed up in one word, Mary.
Oct. 16.—I almost adore that child :
no burden of care would be insupportable if she were near. I believe I could
go cheerfully to death hand-in-hand with her; but stop ! I must not talk like
this.
Nov. 5.—What should I do without
little girls around me ? I dare not think.
Dec
j8.—. . But religion holds up to
us a Friend who will never grow old or fade away. One whom you can love and
live for without ceasing.
In the preceding chapter we have considered the motivation of
Christian mysticism. We must now examine its methods. Since the mystics are
supposed to find contentment in union with God, our problem might be formulated
as that of the means by which they establish contact with the Divine.
According to their theory and
practice, the fundamental psychological condition of Union is passivity.
It is only when the human will ceases to strive and surrenders to the divine
Will that it becomes possible for God to communicate himself
. The biographical
sketches contain evidence of the unanimity with which our mystics insist upon
passivity as a condition of divine possession. They admonish the neophyte to
renounce his will, to be still and listen ; then, and only then, he may expect
to hear God’s voice and feel God’s power2
As a method subsidiary to passivity,
the Christian mystics practise asceticism. God cannot be expected to
bless man with his presence until man has done what he can to eliminate from
his nature that which is displeasing to his Lord. And, since the flesh is the
main source of the evil that is in him, his effort assumes chiefly the form of
a battle against the bodily appetites : asceticism is a striving of the
spirit to subjugate the flesh by starvation, and suffering?
In its strenuous effort to curb the
flesh and the pride of spirit, asceticism is in obvious opposition with the
doctrine of passivity. For that doctrine in its radical form demands not only
the silencing of evil propensities, but also the cessation of all efforts at
selfbetterment. The theory is found in that form in Tauler’s writings : “ So
long as ye desire to fulfil the will of God and have any desire even after
eternity and God, so long are ye not truly poor.” Utterances to the same
purpose may be found in practically all the great mystics. Nevertheless, and
despite the implied contradiction,
1 Comp. chap. XVII of Pratt’s Religious Consciousness, and
the corresponding chapters in Delacroix’ Etudes.
they have all more or less practised a
self-willed asceticism. As a matter of fact, the more thoughtful of the mystics
have noticed with surprise the unsatisfactory results of frontal attacks upon
sin ; and, after a period of heroic but disappointing effort, they have
altogether abandoned or greatly mitigated the severity of their ascetic effort.
Mere passivity, arrested bodily and
mental activity, leads to sleep through drowsiness and somnolence. But when
practised in order to attain union with God, it may culminate in an ecstatic
trance with remarkable attendant phenomena. The Christian mystic looks forward
not to mere sleep, not even simply to the blessed Nirvana of the Buddhist; he
goes to meet a personal God who loves him and whom he loves; and he has in mind
a more or less definite conception of what this meeting will mean to him. Thus,
the mystical ecstasy is in part the outcome of the mystic’s expectations, and,
therefore, ipay beregardedas a product of auto-suggestion. But its
frame-work, if one may speak so, is of another origin ; it is, as we shall see
in another chapter, the direct product of physiological causes.
* * *
Now, this remarkable way of ascending
to God—the mystical ecstasy—is not altogether an invention of the
Christian mystics. It is the joint produce of chance discoveries and empirical
gropings. begun already in man’s infancy. The more general of the desirable
effects of relaxation and of passivity are too obvious to have long remained
hidden. Some of their more special advantages were also discovered early. Long
before the historical period opened, man had not only fallen in the habit of
enjoying, in particular ceremonies, the bodily relaxation and the mental peace
that come with the letting go of life’s burdens, but he had learned to
facilitate and complete self-surrender by the use of artificial methods—of
narcotic drugs, for instance. These drugs not only bring about relaxation and
somnolence, but the mental activity that persists seems alien to the subject’s
own will. Under the influence of these drugs he becomes passive, and yet he
dreams dreams, sees visions, and enjoys an impression of delightful freedom and
unlimited power. In the chapter on drug-ecstasy we have examined at some length
the witchery of various narcotic drugs.
Later on drugs were replaced, in the
production of sacred ecstasy, by other physical and by psychical means. The
Yoga technique for entering Nirvana relies no longer on drugs. It makes the
connecting link between the drug-intoxication of the savage and the psychical
method of the Christian mystic.
The savage was almost entirely at the
mercy of the direct physiological action of the drug; desires and expectations
(autosuggestion) added little to its effects. If he took mescal, he enjoyed as
god-given the wonderful coloured lights and the feelings of detachment and
power that it produced. It is otherwise in Christian mysticism. Whatever the
topic of the meditation by which he may begin his devotions, the' mystic never
loses sight of the righteousness and of the love of the God he aspires to meet.
As long as any consciousness remains, and long after the external world has disappeared,
these thoughts, with the feelings and emotions which accompany them, remain
present and exert a directing action.
The peculiar situation under which
these remaining ideas find themselves in consciousness vastly increases their
power ; for the limitation of the mental activity, which is an essential
feature of trance-states, constitutes a condition of increased suggestibility
to whatever ideas may still be present. It is particularly important to recall
that under the conditions of the Christian trance, love occupies the very centre
of consciousness and remains there as long as any spark of consciousness
lingers. We have seen that under these circumstances platonic love is fanned
into a burning flame which involves the organs of sex. The love-energy thus
mobilized and prevented from following its natural outlet, gives rise to a
variety of remarkable phenomena.
The idea of God’s
righteousness also exerts on the entranced mystic its own particular effects.
Some of them are monitory ; they appear in the form of voices and visions. One may
say that, in general, the mystic finds himself assuming the attitude of
righteousness which he ascribes to God. .
The condition of the entranced mystic
is in certain respects, as we shall realize more and more clearly, similar to
that of a hypnotized person under the sway of ideas that have been suggested to
him ; with the difference, however, that the mystic is his own hypnotizer ; or,
if one prefers to put it that way, that God (as present to his consciousness)
is the hypnotizer. But this generalization will come with more power when we
have seen how a series of trance-states issues from the practice of passivity.
I. Asceticism, its Causes and its Utility.
The forms assumed by Christian
asceticism are sufficiently well-known to warrant passing immediately to the
consideration of its causes and of its results. Rational causes can readily be
found; yet, it would be a gross misunderstanding of human nature to suppose
that Christian asceticism can be completely accounted for as an expression of
rational purposes. The main rational causes of Christian asceticism seem to us
to be the following five1. They are of very unequal importance.
1.
Spiritualization.—Whoever
regards the " flesh ” as the enemy of the " spirit ” must look upon
the pampering of the body as a fostering of evil; while the reduction of the
bodily appetites or their elimination must appear as at least a step toward
spiritualization. The influence of this belief is written large over every
page of the history of Christian asceticism.
2.
Heroism.—This
motive fuses so readily with the preceding that its presence is not always
recognized. It is strikingly exemplified in the following non-religious
experience : “ Often at night in my warm bed I would feel ashamed to depend so
on the warmth, and whenever the thought would come over me, I would have to get
up, no matter what time of night it was, and stand for a minute in the cold,
just so as to prove my manhood2.” Viewed in that light pains may be
endured and sacrifices cheerfully made. This attitude of mind is known to most
high-spirited men of fine moral fibre. It has usually a share in the fortitude
of the ascetic.
3.
Self-sacrifice as a proof of devotion.—To suffer pain for the sake of someone else is a way of
demonstrating the extent of one’s disinterested love. The earthly lover yearns
for a chance to show that there is nothing he would not endure for the beloved.
Divine lovers do not wait for the opportunity: they create it. Our mystics tell
God that there is nothing they would not do for him and they make a beginning
by inflicting upon themselves fearful torments.
4.
The meritoriousness of renunciation and suffering.—There exists a widespread, if unformulated belief in the
meritoriousness of self-inflicted suffering. It is felt to be a sort of
currency available as payment for things desired. Young children occasionally
show how natural is that idea. A lady relates how at the age of about five
years, when her mother was dangerously ill and her recovery despaired of, it
occurred to her that if she gave up a toy horse to which she was very much
attached her mother would recover. Unable to make the entire sacrifice at once,
she threw into the fire first the saddle and the bridle, and later the rest,
after which the mother recovered^. Practices thus motivated are found in all
religions.
It comes to pass also that a direct
purifying effect is ascribed to suffering : it is supposed to have a
cathartic action..
1
Compare the six sources of asceticism mentioned by William James
in the Varieties of Religious Experience, p. 296, if.
3
Loc. cit., p. 300.
4
Th. Flournoy, Une Mystique Moderns, Archives de Psychol., 1915,
vol. XV, p. 18.
5. Imitation.—The desire to be
like Christ in all things, even in his suffering, is often present in Christian
asceticism. It may not seem fair that we should escape suffering when Christ
endured, even unto death, for our sake.
There is also the desire to establish
a closer bond with Christ by making ourselves like him in this particular.
After denying himself drink for several days, Suzo found comfort in this
communication from his Master; “ See, I also have suffered the anguish of
death, and they gave me but a little vinegar and hyssop ; and yet, all the cool
springs of the earth were mine1.” In addition to the present motive
Suzo felt also in this instance the appeal to his manhood.
* * *
However considerable the influence of
these several rational motives may be, they are supplemented by irrational
ones. The following observations point to motives of that order. When selfinfliction
of bodily pain and subjugation of the body are regarded as conditions of
admittance to divine favours, it would seem that asceticism would be practised
most of all before the first ecstasy ; and that it might be mitigated, if not
abandoned, during periods of frequent divine visitations. But it is ordinarily
otherwise : first comes the setting on fire by a passionate love-embrace and
then begins the extravagant asceticism. Its height usually corresponds with the
period of most frequent ecstasy, and both decline together. Mme Guyon notes,
for instance, that during the years of God’s withdrawal, self-mortification
became difficult and that she shrank from pains formerly endured with pleasure.
And yet it is certainly during the periods of God’s absence that the main
rational reasons for asceticism are the strongest. It is while Suzo enjoyed as
many as two trances daily that his ascetic practices were so extravagant as to
endanger his life.
The probability of an irrational
causal connexion between the intensity of the tendency to asceticism and the
love-ecstasies can hardly be denied by anyone familiar with the facts set forth
in the section on the sex-motive. We saw there how Christian mystics are
brought into a condition of unendurable pain by a sexual excitement without
natural outlet. They writhe in an indescribably delightful anguish and cry out
to God that it is enough, that he should let them alone for a while. The
exasperation of the sex-impulse continues for a time after the ecstasy is over
; and is renewed in weaker degrees between the ecstasies; for, the idea of the
Great Lover and of his caresses is almost continuously present.
1 Leben, chap.
XVIII.
In a situation such as this, relief is
frequently sought in violent, uncontrolled movements and even in self-inflicted
pain1. A discharge of the pent-up energy is thus effected. Is not
this what happens in great sorrow, when, under the shock and the pain of a
disaster, one behaves like a raving maniac ? No purposive action appropriate to
the circumstances being at hand, the energy released by the distressing
situation is spent in violent, irrational behaviour.
The connexion between sexual
excitement and asceticism finds support in many a mystic’s utterances : Sister
Jeanne des Anges, Superior of the Ursulines of Loudon, wrote in her Autobiography:
These impurities and the fire of concupiscence which the evil spirit caused
me to feel, beyond all that I can say, forced me to throw myself on to braziers
of hot coal. ... At other times, in the depth of winter, I have sometimes
passed part of the night entirely naked in the snow or in tubs of icy water2,”—all
this to cool the fires of concupiscence.
But, if we express the opinion that
sexual excitement urges to insane extravagances in asceticism, we are not to be
understood as affirming that in no other way can such extravagances come to
pass ; they may have other irrational motives. When St Marguerite Marie reports
that she found a great delight in doing a thing most repulsive to her (licking
sputum with her tongue), her statement may be understood in several ways : the delices
mentioned may mean really only a keen sense of relief at having done an
unpleasant action to which she was imperatively prompted. Or the supreme joy
may have come with the demonstration of spiritual mastery over what she
regarded as the resistance of the body. Or, yet, both explanations may be true
at once.
The human being is so complex that
there is no a, priori difficulty in accepting a statement affirming that
something very painful is also highly enjoyable. The pain may refer to one of
the effects of the deed, and the delight to another. The man who makes a wry
face when swallowing whiskey, finds it unpleasant to the taste, though it may
be delightful to him in its more remote effects.
* * *
Concerning the very complex question
of the utility of asceticism, we shall make two remarks only : Like frontal
attacks in warfare, the effort to root out evil by facing it, keeps the enemy
on the alert
1
Much in sexual perversions is to be accounted for in this manner ;
i.e., as the outcome of an irritation arising in an incomplete expression of
the seximpulse.
2
As quoted by H. Ellis in his Studies in the Psychology of Sex:
Modesty, etc., pp. 240-2.
and brings out resistance. It
maintains in the field of attention the thought of the evils from which it
would be desirable to withdraw attention. The damming of a strong current may
be impossible when the digging of another bed may be feasible.
Our second remark is that the most
influential among the practical mystics came to realize, more or less clearly,
that asceticism at least in its extreme forms, is not an economical use of
energy The more they progressed in their career, the less they relied upon hand
to hand conflicts with the evil that was in them, and the more they trusted in
passive contemplation of the perfections of God, in benevolent activities and
in God’s Holy Grace.
* * *
11. Passivity and the Stages
of the Mystical Union.
Passivity, when practised under
certain conditions, ends .in ecstasy, the spectacular kernel of grand
mysticism. It.is in ecstasy, that germinate the assurance of union with God and
the conviction of illumination and revelation. A special chapter will have to
be devoted to a study of the nature of ecstasies, religious and otherwise, and
to the explanation of the surprising beliefs connected with it. Here we propose
merely to set forth the mystics’ own conception and explanation of divine
ecstasy. And, as they have ascribed much importance to an alleged succession of
degrees or stages through which the soul ascends to ecstatic, divine
possession, we shall begin with an exposition of these stages.
One of the first enumerations of the
stages through which the soul is supposed to pass before complete
identification with the Divine, is that of Hugo of St. Victor (1141). He
recognized three degrees: Cogitatio, Meditatio, Contemplatio1.
Although later mystics have introduced much more refined classifications, the
essential meaning of this early generalization has not been contradicted by
any of them. According to St. Victor, in Contemplation the soul leaves the
world behind, withdraws into herself, and is simplified. At the end, she loses
even the consciousness of her existence and is lost in God.
It would be very tedious and quite
unprofitable to follow the many mystics who have attempted to describe the Journey
of the Soul. When one recalls how difficult it is to observe correctly
something so subtle and evanescent as mental states, and how lacking these
observers were in mental training and even in the conception of scientific
accuracy, one is not surprised to find that their
1
Albert Stockl, Philos, des Mittelalters, vol. I, pp. 353-4.
The disciple of Hugo, Richard of St. Victor, makes six degrees instead of
three. Nevertheless, their descriptions do not differ in any important respect.
descriptions agree only in their main lines.
It will be sufficient for our purpose if we limit our examination to the
formulations of the few among the great mystics who, because of conspicuous
talent, overcame in a measure the difficulties of the task.
* * *
The- ascending series of the mystical
states according to Santa Theresa.—The art of Christian mystical worship is generally supposed
to have found its culmination in the teaching of the great Spanish Saint
(1515-82). None before or after, in the Roman Church, has surpassed her in
fulness of experience and in talent of introspection. Her writings have become
the standards in the description of this sort of experience1. Praise
of Santa Theresa’s talent should, however, not prevent us from realizing that
she belonged to an ignorant and superstitious age. If the main lines of her
pictures are consistent and definite enough, the rest is in part incoherent and
at times contradictory. Neither should we lose sight of the fact that, however
accurate she intended to be, she suffered the triple penalty of being a
systematizer, of wishing to edify, and of desiring to make her experiences fit
into the traditional dogmatic scheme of the Church of which she was a devout
adherent.
In the Autobiography, the
Ascent to God is divided into four stages or “ states ” : Meditation, Orison of
Quiet (or, as others say, Contemplation) ; the Sleep of the Powers (or of the
Mental Faculties) ; and Ecstasy, including Rapture. But in Interior Castle,
these four stages are divided into six, and a new one is added. We shall see
that there are sufficient reasons for rejecting this last degree as being the
product of a confusion and for regarding the four stages of the Life as
the more satisfactory division.
1. Meditation (Chapters
XI-XIII)2. Meditation is man’s work, “ assisted by divine grace.” As
subject of the meditation one of the mysteries of the Passion may be chosen ;
for example, our Lord on the cross. The aim of the soul must be to increase
love and courage in the service of God. She may think of Jesus Christ as present
to the senses, seek to fan her love for him into a bright flame, to keep in
1
The main sources of information upon the mystical degrees and
mystical life in general, are the Autobiography or Life, and the Inner
Castle or the Dwellings of the Soul. Chaps. XI to XXII (written in 1562) of
the Life, are consecrated to a description of the four stages by which
the soul ascends to God. In Inner Castle she took up again, in 1577,
i.e., fifteen years later, the description of the Ascent of the Soul.
All references to the Life are,
here as previously, to the French translation by Marcel Bouix, Paris, 1857. The
references to the Book of Foundations and to Inner Castle are
respectively to the second and third volumes of the Oeuvres Mystiques de
Sainte Therbse, by the same translator, Paris, 1869.
2
In the following descriptions, I have followed closely the
phraseology of the Saint.
his company, speak to him, implore
him, complain to him, and rejoice with Him.
Although it may at times be arduous to
keep one’s mind upon the subject of the meditation it is within man’s power.
But to endeavour to pass to the higher stages by one’s own effort, would be “
futile ” and “ presumptuous,” for they imply a suspension of the
activity of the understanding.
2.
The Orison1 of Quiet (XIV-XV) is a “ foretaste
of supernatural favours.” It is God who elevates the soul to this union with
him. Understanding and memory act only at intervals and in a peaceful manner.
Their functions are reduced to assisting the will in the enjoyment of the
blessedness offered it. At times, however, they disturb the intimate union of
the will with God. The will, striving to maintain itself in union, “ works in a
marvellous way without the least effort in order to keep alive this small spark
of divine love.”
If, in Meditation, effort, sometimes
irksome, dominates; here it is enjoyment. The saint describes in glowing terms
the delight of the Union of Quiet .
3.
The Sleep of the Powers
(XVI-XVII). For a long time St Theresa did not
know how to separate this state from the preceding. Both consist in an
imperfect union with God and are fruits of his merciful grace; and in both the
activity of the mental functions is much reduced. Her efforts at distinction,
enlightened though she is by the divine Master, are hardly satisfactory; and
one must admit the obvious fact, namely, that there is merely a difference of
degree and not of kind. The most significant statements she makes regarding this
stage are that “ the powers of the soul are incapable of occupying themselves
with any other object than God ; they are altogether taken up with the
enjoyment of this excess of glory ” ; tlifLonly task of the soul is to
surrender eniircly, to be ready to die if necessary. In order to paint this
enjoyment she draws upon the most vivid hues of her rich palette : “ .it is .a
glorious delirium, a celestial madness ” ; the soul feels herself dying to the
world while reposing rapturously in the enjoyment of God. Compared with the
second, this stage is characterized by a deeper degree of absorption in God and
enjoyment of him.
The saint informs us that during the
last five or six years she has often been favoured with this degree of union1.
4.
Ecstasy, or Rapture
, or Flight of the Soul
(XVIII-XXI). In the two preceding states the
soul belongs still sufficiently to herself “to be able to indicate, at least by
signs, what she experiences ” ; but, in ecstasy, “ the soul is absorbed in
enjoyment, without understanding that which she enjoys. . . . The senses are
all so completely occupied by that enjoyment that none of them can . . . pay
attention to anything else. . . . The delights which overcome the soul are
incomparably greater (than in the preceding stages), . . . and the soul and the
body are equally incapable of communicating them.” “ The soul seems to leave
the organs which she animates.” “ She falls into a sort of swoon. . . . It is
only with the greatest effort that she can make the slightest movement with her
hands. The eyes close of themselves; and, if they are kept open, they see
almost nothing. ... If spoken to, the soul hears the sound of the voice but no
distinct word.”
The impression of levitation is
frequent : “ Often my body would become so light that it had no longer any
weight; at times I no longer felt my feet touching the ground.” Ecstasy comes
on more suddenly than the other states, and can with much less success be
resisted: “ When I wanted to resist,” writes the Saint, “ I felt under my feet
astonishing forces which lifted me up.” The suddenness and violence of these
onslaughts are at times so great that she stands in fear of them.
1 Semi-somnambulism (XVIlI ; 185-6). I mention here this condition
because it is taken up at this point in the saint’s narrative. But it should be
understood that nothing else in her writings would warrant the opinion that
semi-somnambulism appears only after the third stage. As a matter of fact, she
does not number it at all, and the name it bears here is of my own chosing.
If in the Orison of Quiet—and it seems
to be the same in the Sleep of the Faculties—the soul keeps itself motionless
for fear of losing contact with God ; in semi-somnambulism it “ can lead at the
same time both the life of contemplation and of action. While remaining united
to God, it can attend to charitable objects, read, divert itself, etc. . . . it
is like a person who conversing with another and hearing himself addressed by
a third, gives to each a divided attention.” Santa Theresa is not the only
mystic who, at times, went about attending to ordinary business in this divided
state of attention. Mme Guyon, St Marguerite Marie, and others', did likewise.
Santa Theresa is baffled by the
mystery of a soul apparently unconscious and yet, as she thinks, aware that she
loves and enjoys : “ The will is doubtless occupied with loving, but it does
not understand how it loves. As to the understanding, if it understands, it is
by a mode of activity not understood by it; and it can understand nothing of
that which it hears. As to me, I do not think it understands, because, as I
have said, it does not understand itself. For the rest, there is here a mystery
in which I get lost1.”
Here, as before, under the
preconception that she is describing conditions sharply distinct, if
genetically related, she strains to find absolute differences ; and, as before,
she fails. Her final modest conclusion admits the failure : “ In my view,
Elevation of the Soul (Ecstasy) differs from Union ” ; nevertheless, she
concedes that they are " at bottom the same thing,” only, in the Flight of
the Soul, “ God communicates to the soul a much greater indifference to, and
detachment from the world. . . . Who does not see the difference between a
small and a large fire ? Nevertheless, the one is as truly fire as the other.”
Ecstasy is of very short duration.
Here she speaks of half an hour; elsewhere she is much less definite. As the
powers return, it is the understanding and the memory that come to themselves
first, while the will persists longer in union. At times, after a partial
return to normal consciousness, the will is again caught up in Ecstasy3.
* * *
A strong current of sensuous pleasure
runs through the divine favours. St Theresa insists that one of the main
concerns of the soul in Union and Ecstasy is to enjoy God. Many years later,
when writing the Book of Foundations—Raptures had become very rare—she
had perceived the danger lurking in our pleasure-loving nature : “ The
attraction which pleasure possesses for us is so keen that God has hardly given
to the soul a taste of these spiritual delights that she entirely surrenders
herself to them. She would remain as it were motionless in order not to disturb
the sweet experience ; for nothing in the world she would want to lose it3.”
It is, however, only the Raptures lasting several hours that she condemns:
"It would be better,” she writes, "to use in the active service of
God the long hours spent in this sort of intoxication. . . .
1
Compare Interior Castle, Sixth Dwelling, IV, 431-4. The
" mystery ” will come up for elucidation in the chapter upon mystical
revelation.
3
The reader should compare Santa Theresa’s description with that of
the trance produced by drugs in chap. II of this book.
4
Book of Foundations,
p. 83.
I advise, therefore, the abbesses to
eliminate these long trances1.” But if the delights are “ spiritual
” and from God, as she affirms in this very passage, why not surrender to them
and seek to enjoy them as long as possible ? The Saint does not raise that
puzzling question. She is aware, in any case, that pleasure is not a sufficient
justification for the existence of mystical states. The gracious Lord grants
them as encouragement to holy living. One may well insist on this point, for
the mystics have not always been given the praise they deserve for realizing
that asceticism, on the one hand, and ecstasy, on the other, are means to an
ethical end. That which is to be attained is humility and obedience ; and,
above all else, the love of God and man
. “ Our rules in their entirety,” writes the Saint, “ are merely
means in order to attain more completely this end
.”
Whatever the number of divisions made
in the Journey of the Soul and whatever variations in the names used to
designate them, later descriptions are in substantial agreement with that of
Theresa. We shall illustrate this agreement in the instances of the two Roman
Catholic Mystics who, after Santa Theresa, have observed with the most care
their trance-experiences, namely, St Francois de Sales and Mme Guyon.
* * *
The ascending series of the mystical
States according to the Traite de VAmour de Dieu, of Francois de Sales.—This treatise of the famous Bishop of Geneva is a mystical
classic. It owes its great influence to the power of introspection of its
author and a superior literary talent. Although he knew some of the works of St
Theresa, there is no ground for doubting that his descriptions follow his own
experiences closely. His mind, better trained and not so easily drawn out of
its way or entangled by picturesque though unimportant details, grasped more
clearly than that of the Spanish Saint the main outlines of the pictures he wanted
to draw. Leaving out a number of unimportant subdivisions, his description may
be summarized as follows.
(1) The starting-point is Meditation.
The soul seeks “ motives of love,” draws them to herself and delights in them.
Then, she choses that which she deems to be most favourable to her progress and
enters (2) Contemplation which differs from Meditation in that “ the
latter considers in their details objects that may awaken love ; while
Contemplation is a unitary, total view of the loved object.” It consists in an
immobilization of thought upon certain ideas and images, chosen because of the
tender feeling they evoke. “ Although Meditation takes place almost always with
difficulty and involves thought and critical consideration, the mind passing from
one idea to another, seeking in different places the love of the Well-Beloved;
Contemplation is always pleasurable because it presupposes that one has found
God and His holy Love.”
(3)
At this point the soul is ready to pass into Amorous Abstraction
(Recueillement Amoureux). But this cannot be accomplished by her own
effort, the role of the human will is at an end ; it is the work of God’s holy
grace. In that state, the soul enjoys a certain gentle sweetness {douce
suavite) which testifies to the presence of God. Mental activity is reduced
almost to nothing. The soul is conscious that God is near, and “ makes a kind
of effort to approach Him; she turns in the direction of her most lovable and
beloved Bridegroom. An extreme reverence and a sweet fear sometimes fall upon
the soul which is in that state.” It happens also that “ she remains as it were
without life ; she speaks and answers with difficulty, all the senses are
benumbed,” until the Bridegroom allows her to return to herself. When in
Amorous Abstraction, the soul still possesses consciousness of the presence of
the Bridegroom ; she remains en rapport with him ; she hears his voice,
but can no longer answer him, or only with great effort.
The reader will have observed that
Meditation, Contemplation, and Amorous Abstraction correspond closely to
the first three degrees of the classification set forth in Santa Theresa’s Life.
(4)
It sometimes happens that the trance deepens until there is a
complete loss of consciousness ; “ the soul ceases even to hear the
Well-beloved; she feels no longer any sign of His presence. Then, on awakening,
she can say truly, ‘ I slept with my God and in the arms of the divine Presence
and Providence, and I knew it not.’ ” The Bishop of Geneva describes with the
pen of an artist the sensations of the soul as she feels herself gliding into
the arms of the divine Lover and there falls asleep. The soul, says he, does
not throw herself upon, or press herself against the Bridegroom, but passes
gently as a liquid, flowing substance into the Divinity that she loves. This
final condition is the Liquefaction of the Soul in God.
* * *
The Ascending series of the mystical
states according to the “ Short and Easy Method of Orison ” of Mme Guyon.—In this little book the descriptions are still terser than in the
Treatise of St Frangois de Sales. All accessory features are left aside and the
main lines stand out with perfect clearness She also makes four degrees :
1.
In Meditation “ one must linger gently over some
substantial thought, not_reasoning about it, but merely fixing the mind
. . . the subject should be selected with a view to fixing the mind.”
2.
‘‘The principal exercise should be the presence of God.” One must
fix one’s attention “ by the affection rather than by the activity of the
understanding. The soul rests, then, in a light amorous repose full of
reverence and faith. . . . This should be an orison not of the thought, but of
the heart.”
3.
“ When the soul begins to perceive the odour of the divine
perfumes . . . it is of great importance that she cease from all effort in
order that God Himself may act. Remain quiet. It is necessary to breathe gently
on the flame; so soon as it is lighted, cease blowing, for he who continues to
blow will extinguish it.”
4.
Consciousness disappears. God has taken entire possession of the
soul.
* * *
Santa Theresa, St Francois de Sales
and Mme Guyon are agreed : the first step to take in the Ascent to God is to
limit the range of the mental activity by choosing a subject of meditation, and
then to concentrate the attention with as much completeness as possible upon
the chosen theme. But the “ concentration ” here intended is not the activity
of the thinker who seeks points of difference and similarity. In this
technique, Contemplation means simplification ; all effort must cease in order
to passivity. “ Contemplation,” says St Francois, “ is a unitary, total view of
the loved object ” ; Mme Guyon writes of the same degree, “ it should be an
orison not of the thought, but of the heart ” ; and Santa Theresa speaks of a
“great reduction of the mental activity,” and declares that the powers
of the soul are unable to do anything except enjoy. Complete passivity
brings with it a sense of absolute repose in God and a variable degree of
warmth of enjoyment. It is followed in the completed instances by a moment of
total unconsciousness.
It may be as Hocking says : in
Meditation the mystic may recollect “ those deepest principles of will, or
preference, which the activities of living tend to obscure1.” But in
so far as it is the first step towards union with God, the function of
Meditation is merely to lead up to.passivity by arresting the activity of the
mind. When, therefore, the mystic begins his Ascent with what he calls
Meditation, he does not set aside the method of passivity. And his way of
preparing himself, if not the best, is, in any case, effective. His utterances
about what he means by Meditation and what he expects of it, leave no room for
misunderstanding. The first step of the
1 Hocking, loc. cit., p. 376.
Christian mystical method is in
substance the first step of the hypnotic method ; it begins with the fixation
of attention upon some thought or external object in order to circumscribe
mental activity.
* * *
The Buddhistic and the Islamic
mystical trances and also hypnosis are essentially similar in their form to the
Christian mystical trance.
The Mystical Trance in Buddhism.—The Blessed One spoke thus : “ Through the subsidence of reasoning
and reflection, and still retaining joy and happiness, the monk enters upon
the second trance, which is an interior tranquilization and intentness of the
thoughts, and is produced by concentration. But again through the paling of
joy, indifferent, contemplative consciousness, he enters upon the third trance.
But again through the disappearance of all antecedent gladness or grief, he
enters upon the fourth trance, which has neither misery nor happiness, but is
contemplation as refined by indifference. But again through having completely
overpassed all perceptions of form, through the perishing of perceptions of
inertia, and through ceasing to dwell on perceptions of diversity, he says to
himself, ‘ Space is infinite,’ and dwells in the realm of the infinity of
space. But again through having completely overpassed the realm of the infinity
of space, he says to himself, ‘ Consciousness is infinite,’ and dwells in the
realm of the infinity of consciousness. But again he says to himself, ‘ Nothing
exists,’ and dwells in the realm of nothingness. But again through having
completely overpassed the realm of nothingness (the realm of ‘ neither
perception nor yet non-perception ’), he arrives at the cessation of
perception and sensation1.”
The Mystical Trance in Islamism.—By concentrating the mind upon some thought or by endless
repetition of a word, the soufi empties his mind, loses the sense of the
reality of the external world, and realizes a state of “ psychic homogeneity ”
from which all distinctions have disappeared and in which nothing remains but a
general awareness of existence : his own life and that of the universe seem
merged together. '
“ The Mussulman ascetic (before
reaching ecstasy) passes through three phases : preparation, perfection,
expectation of ecstasy. In the preparatory phase the attention and the will are
trained. The mystical ‘ apprentice’ is directed to concentrate his mind upon
some moral or philosophical topic. This in order to give him the habit of
concentration, to avoid distraction, and to become accustomed to the use of
symbols. He is to practise these exercises of concentration at
1
Henry C. Warren, Buddhism in Translations, pp. 347-9,
abbreviated. first in the
middle of the bustle of city life, in the public squares, in the bazaars. This is
an obligatory test.
“ In the second stage the ascetic
lives solitary in the corner of the mosque or better in a cell of the zaouia,
a room a few feet square, without ornaments, without furniture, almost without
light. He practises fasting, vigils, silence, and the control of his thoughts.
His aim is twofold : first, to curb his passions ; second, to isolate the
object of meditation from its sensible qualities, to break his connexions with
the phenomenal world. The mortification which he inflicts upon himself is to
make him indifferent to pleasure and pain. Meditation upon metaphysical
subjects more and more abstruse will convince the disciple of the non-reality
of the external world.
“ He is to train himself in the
practice of the mental dikr, that is to say, of the meditation of a
sentence of the Koran, of a formula, of a word. The verbal dikr
or the repetition ad nauseam of the same words, is a degenerate form of
the mental dikr; it is a simple mechanical means employed by the
Mussulman brotherhoods because a majority of the members have not the
capacities required to become true soufis. The purpose of the mental dikr
is to ‘ extract the divine essence from all the concepts of the understanding,
out of all the ideas of the mind ’ (Abd el Aben). The dikr causes the soufi
to forget his family and business-affairs, his name, his own physiognomy, and
his humanity. Thus by the successive elimination of all the accessory qualities
of a thing or a concept, he approaches nearer and nearer to a homogeneous
state.
“ In the third stage, a state of
peaceful expectancy is reached, very hard to describe. Personality has almost
disappeared. The simplification and the narrowing of consciousness have reached
their extreme limits.
“ In complete ecstasy the soufi
is lost as a wave in a sea of unity, and he has the intuition of being
inseparable from it, he lives of the general life without sensible qualities, ‘
as an atom lost in the light of the sun1.’ ”
The Hypnotic Trance.—The methods in common use to produce hypnosis include, as does the
method to induce mystical ecstasy, the fixation of attention and directions
(suggestions) intended to produce relaxation and mental passivity and,
ultimately, sleep.
The first degrees of the hypnotic
trance are similar to, and follow the same progressive order as the degrees of
the mystical trances described in this book. Somnolence is the first indication
of approaching trance ; the eyes close, the activity of the mind is greatly
reduced.
1 Probst-Biraben, L’extase dans le Mysticisms Musulman, Rev.
Philos., vol. LXII, 1906, pp. 490-8.
In a later phase, movements have
become impossible. The subject may still hear and understand, but he is no
longer able to answer, unless “ suggestion ” be used to restore his motor
power. At that stage, hallucinations can be readily produced. There is no or
little external perception to contradict the hallucinations, neither is there
enough independent mental activity to cause their rejection.
If at that stage the subject be left
to himself, he either wakes up or passes into what seems to be an ordinary,
complete sleep. From that sleep he returns to consciousness in a normal way.
Further suggestions by the hypnotizer,
or physiological causes may determine the appearance of artificial
somnambulism—a condition in which the subject, without being responsive in a
normal way to external stimuli, has nevertheless recovered the ability to move.
He now acts out his dreams and the ideas put into his mind by the hypnotizer.
If the mystical trance stops at the “
complete sleep of the powers,” it is because, as the mystic grows somnolent and
mental activity ceases, his idea of God fades out and he loses the stimulating
and directing influence exerted by that idea. Therefore it is that, instead of
passing into artificial somnambulism, the mystic falls into an ordinary sleep.
Whereas the attention of the hypnotized is actively maintained upon the
hypnotizer by the suggestions received from him.
The deepest hypnotic stage
(somnambulism) may be reached at the first attempt, and so rapidly that the
preceding stages can hardly be observed. Usually, however, it is otherwise ;
and often no amount of perseverance brings complete success.
The only essential differences
existing between the mystical and the hypnotic trance are due to the direct
action of the hypnotizer upon the hypnotized, and to the differences between
that which is expected of God by the mystic and of the hypnotizer by his
subject.
* * *
III. The Confusion of the Degrees of
Depth of the Trance with ‘ the Degrees of Moral Perfection.
The mystics affirm that the degrees of
depth attained by the trance keep step with the moral progress of the
individual. There is here a curious and far-reaching double error : the deepest
stage of the mystical trance is regarded as being attainable only gradually ;
and success in that respect is said to follow upon or correspond to the moral
progress of the soul. The graver of these two errors is, obviously, the
assimilation of increasing degrees of passivity in the mystical trance with
progression of the soul towards perfection.
Complete “ surrender to God in a
trance, and complete surrender of the selfish will in the affairs of daily
life, are, as a matter of fact, very different things. That Santa Theresa should
have identified things so different may well excite surprise. Yet it must be
said in her behalf that, in this egregious confusion, the Spanish Saint was
following an established tradition ; and was, in turn, followed by Roman
Catholic theologians.
Let us observe first that, as a matter
of fact, the attainment of the highest ecstatic stage need not be delayed. It
is at times reached with the very first experience; in other instances, the
ecstasy develops and reaches its final stage in the course of a few weeks,
months, or years. If the reader will revert to the biographical documents, he
will find that very early in their ascetic careers, Suzo and Catherine of Genoa
enjoyed ecstasies apparently as complete as any experienced subsequently. They
were not aware of the graded progression of which St Theresa and others make so
much. Mme Guyon also found herself at the outset of her mystical career, at a
single bound as it were, on the top round of the Ladder of Love. Of the orison
with which she was favoured after the first interview with the Franciscan monk,
she says, “ it was altogether empty, without images ; nothing happened in my
head ; it was an orison of enjoyment and of possession of the Will.” During her
first exaltation period, her orisons were “ without acts,” or “ speech ” ;
without any “ distinctions ” ; movement was impossible, love alone remained. So
far as ecstasy is concerned, there does not seem to have been any progress
beyond that point—there was not room for any, for it had attained complete
unconsciousness—and yet, she had a long journey to pursue before her whole
being was regarded by herself as completely attuned to God’s will. The first of
the thirty-one trances of Mlle Ve was just as complete as the last. As to St
Theresa herself, the account she gives of her trances is far from agreeing
entirely with her theory.
The confusion we are discussing
appears in its most shocking completeness in the systematization which, in her
advanced years, the Spanish Saint had the misfortune to set forth under the
title, Inner Castle, or the Dwellings of the Soul. That book was written
in 1577, i.e., fifteen years after the part of the Autobiography
containing her classification in four stages. It presents the Journey of the
Soul as performed in seven stages. The first degree (Meditation) of the earlier
classification is now subdivided into three. Thus, the four stages of the Life
become six degrees or “ dwellings.” They are represented in her fanciful
imagery as disposed about a new and central one, the seventh, which is God’s
abode and the goal of the Journey. The only important difference between this
and the
174
PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM earlier description and classification is the
addition of this new final stage, called “ Spiritual Marriage or Deification.”
Spiritual Marriage or Deification (II-IV). This name is intended to indicate the completeness and
the permanence of the union that has now taken place. There is no longer any
distinction or separation between the soul and God; God and only God liveth in
her. And the bride is no longer banished from the presence of the Bridegroom
for periods of varying length ; she abides in the presence of her Lord.
The most surprising characteristic of
this new condition is that it does not, as do the preceding stages, involve an
obscuration of consciousness and a consequent abatement of activity. Contemplation
has been left behind. Instead of wishing to die in order to enjoy more fully
the bridegroom, the soul is now desirous of remaining on earth in order to
serve the divine Master; altogether steadfast, she is continuously absorbed in
planning and performing good works. The great pains and the gnawing misery of
dryness have vanished; “ the soul is in a way freed from the inner disturbances
which is endured in all the preceding dwellings.” “ That which surprises me
most,” declares the Saint, “ is that when she has reached this condition the
soul becomes almost a stranger to the impetuous raptures of which I have spoken
; even Ecstasy and the Flight of the Soul become very infrequent.” The
mysterious pains also have gone.
Realizing that the preceding picture
of the Spiritual Marriage is to some extent idealized, the Saint adds a few
corrective strokes. The soul is not absolutely sinless, she stumbles still, but
never seriously; and then, she quickly recovers, for the sight of her
imperfection does not make her a,prey to dejection. Neither is the body always
free from pain ; but though it suffers, the soul remains serene and loses not
the sense of God’s sustaining presence.
The description is sufficient to make
clear that this Spiritual Marriage does not belong to the series of brief,
specific, trance states described under the names Meditation, Orison of Quiet,
Sleep of the Powers, and Ecstasy. It is characterized by traits entirely
incongruous with those belonging to that series. In Ecstasy, progress in the
quiescence of mental activity, which marks the ascent from Meditation reaches
its culminating point: the soul has become entirely unconscious of the world’s
existence and is altogether incapable of doing either God’s will or her own.
Whereas in Spiritual Marriage there is conscious activity of body and mind ;
ecstasies, catalepsies, semi-somnambulism, and even visions have gone; the soul
is
THE METHODS OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM 175
self-conscious, clear, and fulfilling God’s will among men. What St Theresa has
pictured under the name Spiritual Marriage or Deification is therefore not an
additional and final stage of a trancedevelopment—there is no stage beyond
what she names Ecstasy— but her conception of the final condition of the
purified soul, partly or entirely free from the accidents of rapture, ecstasy,
dryness, etc., performing among men, in a steadfast way and without effort, the
will of her divine Master.
Incredible as it may seem, this
confusion of a fully conscious, unselfishly active, rational person, with’the
condition of someone entranced, i.e., deprived of his mental and bodily powers,
runs throughout the writings of the great mystics. Two preconceptions made this
confusion possible: (1) Ecstatic trances are divine favours given both as
rewards for moral progress achieved and as encouragement or assistance in
further effort. (2) Loss of sensory and of motor ability, and final total
unconsciousness, mean divine possession. The tendency to confuse the passivity
of unconsciousness with the universalization of the individual will is
facilitated by the fact that the mystic enters the trance with his mind fixed
on God, his attitude is for the moment that of the purified soul; he feels only
the generous promptings of the love-intoxicated
.
It is well to recall that St Theresa
never altogether lost sight of the belief that the, trance states, capped by
ecstasy, were special favours, occasional, extraordinary blessings, intended as
means of perfecting the soul for the work to be performed for God on this
earth. That, as she grew older, this truth became increasingly clear to her,
cannot be contested. In Inner Castle, for instance, she is concerned
much more with the condition and behaviour of the soul outside of the specific
mystical states than with these states themselves.
* * *
At what period of her life does the
Saint place the Spiritual Marriage ? No very definite answer can be given to
that question. Delacroix says guardedly that she rose to that condition during
the last ten years of her life1. Those who, with him, take her
systematization perhaps too seriously, may be puzzled by the contradictions in
which she has involved herself. Although from her own statements in the Castle,
it seems that she reached Spiritual Marriage in 1572, she writes as late as
1579 as if she were yearning after the absent lover as during the barren
periods of earlier years : “ My heart is consumed with a desire to enjoy you
and it cannot, captive as it is in this earthly prison. Thus, all stands in the
way of my love. . . . But, alas, Lord of my Soul, how can I know with certainty
that I am not parted from you2.”
On the other hand several times much
earlier she claimed to have reached Union, and to have been altogether happy in
God’s love. As early as the year following her entrance into monastic life,
hardly on the threshold of the holy life, she lived " blamelessly ” for a
while. The most significant moment in the history of her moral progress, is
probably the crisis in the year 1558, when, after twenty years of
self-disapproval and unavailing struggle, she finally broke entirely with the
World. God “ changed entirely ” her heart, and her resolution to give up
everything for his sake “ became unshakable.” If one insists upon dating the
Spiritual Marriage, it should be, it seems, from that year. The completeness of
union was, nevertheless, temporary; the natural man reaffirmed himself, and
periods of depression and staleness, during which she lost the sense of God’s
love and of harmony with his will, made her again and again cry out as in
despair for the return of her absent Lover.
There is no doubt that extraordinary
favours became increasingly rare and finally disappeared entirely. As the end
approached, her life moved at a more even pace. She ascribed this “ progress ”
to the action of God, and thought that these divine instruments of
sanctification were withdrawn because superfluous. One might, instead, regard
their withdrawal as due to the natural effect of advanced age. According to her
own account, she was at least fifty-seven years old, and perhaps sixty-six,
when the stable, even tenor of the Spiritual Marriage began. At that time of
life people love otherwise than at twenty; transports and paroxysms are no
longer within their means. In this connexion the role that we have had to
assign to the sexual life in the production of the love-ecstasy must not be
forgotten.
1
See, regarding this point, Delacroix, loc. cit., pp. 58-9.
2
As quoted by Delacroix, loc. cit., p. 59.
One might also take into
consideration, as a cause of the disappearance of certain extraordinary
favours, the cessation of inner moral conflicts. In so far as she was unified,
remarkable automatisms in the form of monitory visions and auditions would
cease, for they are products of inner conflicts. And, finally, one might add
the important circumstance that, with the deadening of age and the attainment
of a certain degree of moral unity, she entered upon a life of strenuous
external activity. That fact was not without influence in bringing her to a
more ordinary and healthier way of life.
* * *
The Ascending Series of the Mystical
Degrees according to a Roman Catholic Theologian. Repeated attempts have been made by ecclesiastical writers, who
do not claim direct knowledge of mystical phenomena, to systematize the many
descriptions left us by practical mystics. Among the recent attempts approved
by the Roman Church, the most thorough is probably that of A. Poulain1
of the Society of Jesus. Sufficient interest attaches to the teaching of that
Church and to the manner with which its scholars treat this problem to justify
the following exposition.
In order to be accepted as true by the
Roman Church, a mystical experience should “ contain a knowledge of a kind that
our own efforts and our own exertions could never succeed in producing.” Any
mysticism which cannot be made to bear out this " truth,” is declared
false mysticism by that Church . Poulain’s interpretations conform to this requirement.
Under the general head of “ orison,”
he classifies both ordinary prayer and the mystical states, but he affirms an
absolute separation between these two kinds of orison : the first can be
performed whenever man wants ; the second cannot, it waits upon God’s grace
.
The four Degrees of Ordinary Prayer. There are four degrees of ordinary prayer : Vocal Prayer,
which is recitation ; Meditation, also called Methodical or Discursive
Prayer ; Affective Prayer ; and the Prayer of Simple Regard or
Simplicity. The passage from one to the other of these is by insensible
gradation. Affective Prayer is merely a prayer in which " the affections
are numerous or occupy much more space than the considerations and the
arguments'*.”
The highest degree of ordinary prayer,
the Prayer of Simplicity is obtained when the simplification of the
intellectual contents of consciousness and the diminution of the sense of
self-activity, are carried sufficiently far and affect even the will, “ which
then becomes satisfied with very little variety in the affections3.”
In this state, the soul may be drawn “ to content herself with thinking of God
or of His presence in a confused and general manner. It is an affectionate
remembrance of God. If this be consoling, the soul feels a sacred flame which
burns on gently within her and takes the place of reasonings1.” The
main difference between Meditation and the higher sorts of prayer is simple
enough : “ Either we reason, and then it is meditation ; or we do not reason,
and then it is affective prayer or the prayer of simplicity2.”
The four Degrees of
Mystical Prayer . Sooner
or later many persons arrive at the highest of the ordinary forms of prayer. It
has even been held that every Christian ought to attain to it. But to pass from
that prayer to the Prayer of Quiet—the lower degree of the mystical, i.e.,
supernatural forms of orison—is to cross an “ abyss3 ” ; and none
can do so unless by God’s special favour. That which constitutes the alleged
abysmal separation is explained thus : “
There is a profound difference between thinking of a person and
feeling him near us, and so when we
feel that someone is near us, we say that we have an experimental knowledge of
his presence3.” “ In the mystic state, God is not satisfied merely
to help us to think of Him and to remind us of His presence. In a word, He
makes us feel that we really enter into communication with Him3.”
The knowledge of God, gained in the mystic union, is not deduced from the
nature of the experience or its content, it is an immediate knowledge.
The soul perceives God, but not by the ordinary senses. God is made
present to the soul without any material form. " That which constitutes
the common basis of all the various degrees of the mystic union is that the
spiritual impression by which God makes known His presence, manifests Him in
the manner, as it were, of something interior which penetrates the soul; it is
a sensation of inhibition, of fusion, of immersion6.” “ Interior
touch ” is the term that seems to Poulain best to designate the particular
nature of this knowledge.
From the above remarks, it would
appear that the main, the substantial effect of the divine action in mystical
orison is the realization by the ecstatic of a divine Presence, not of a merely
" deduced ” conviction, but an immediate experience of it. He
perceives God by the feeling, by an " interior touch.” In these and other
words, Poulain strives to describe the characteristics of the particularly
vivid and convincing impression of a divine Presence which is, as we also hold,
the very centre of the Christian mystical experience.
There are only four degrees of
mystical prayer. When any mystic seems to refer to some additional state, he
merely uses other names for these same four degrees or for some particular
aspects of them. Poulain’s description of these states corresponds with that
of the last four degrees in Santa Theresa’s Interior Castle. In general
he follows her as closely as consistency permits and even beyond.
(a) Prayer of Quiet. Divine action is not strong enough to hinder distractions ; the
imagination still preserves its freedom.
(&) Full Union. The soul is fully occupied with the divine object; it is
not diverted by any other thought ; in a word, it has no distractions. On the
other hand, the senses continue to act more or less ; so that it is possible,
by speaking, walking, etc., to put ourselves into relation with the external
world, and thus to bring the orison to an end.
(c) “ In Ecstasy the divine
action has considerable force, and all communications with the outside world
by means of the senses are interrupted, or almost entirety so. Thus we are no
longer capable of any voluntary movement nor are we able to come out of our
prayer at will .”
1
Ibid., p. 13.
2
Ibid., p. 11.
-3
Ibid., p. 65.
4
Loc. cit.
5
Ibid., pp.
64-5.
6
p. 90-1. See about this question the whole of chapter V, "
God’s Presence Felt,” and of chapter VI, “ The Spiritual Senses.”
These three stages differ, we are
told, not in kind but in degree ; one passes from the first to the others by
insensible gradation. None of them is of long duration. They may last but a few
minutes and then may repeat themselves at brief intervals. They may develop
slowly or appear abruptly. They may pass into a natural sleep1 and
may even, in Poulain’s opinion, take the place of sleep. This last would
explain how it is that some saints could without apparent fatigue spend a great
part of their nights in prayer2.
It is chiefly during ecstasy that
visions and revelations are granted. The sense of the presence of God is at
times so intense, God is so close, that it becomes a " spiritual embrace,”
characterized by very ardent delight3.
When ecstasy makes a sudden, violent
appearance, it is called “ rapture.” There may be violent suffering during the
transport of ecstatic joy. The body continues in the position it occupied when
the rapture came upon it. After a rapture there may be difficulty in resuming
the ordinary occupations. The memory of what has been seen is retained ; but
the soul does not usually know how to express this exalted knowledge. As a rule
it is felt that the understanding has been amplified*. On this last point he
insists in order, it seems, to separate divine ecstasy from trances that are
symptoms of disease. The argument by means of which he supports his affirmation
are no other than those offered by the mystics themselves ; he accepts them
uncritically. The chief of these arguments is based upon alleged
revelations—revelations too exalted to be understood3.
(d) Transforming Union. Poulain prefers this term to Spiritual Marriage or Deification ;
otherwise his description follows closely that of St Theresa. And, like her, he
regards this final and stable condition of the perfected soul, seeking with
full consciousness the advancement of God’s Kingdom on earth, as completing the
series of the brief, specific moments of limited or non-existent consciousness
he has just described.
* * *
Poulain affirms the existence of a
" chasm ” between the last degree of ordinary or natural, and the first
degree of mystical or supernatural orison : when the Prayer of Simplicity has
been reached, man’s work ceases ; or, rather, nothing more remains for him to
do except the negative task of surrendering, of letting God have his way. Yet,
in his description, the chasm is bridged ; he affirms God’s action in the
natural, and man’s action in the supernatural stages. Of the Prayer of
Simplicity (the last of the states of ordinary prayer) he says, " The
persistence of one principal idea and the vivid impression that it produces,
point as a rule to an increased action on God’s part
.” And, a little further
on, " The prayer of simplicity, then, requires efforts at times,
especially in order to curtail distraction, just as this is so with the Prayer
of Quiet (the lower supernatural state) itself. Everything depends upon the
force with which the wind of grace blows?.”
* * *
1
Ibid., p. 227.
2
Ibid., p.
227-8.
3
Ibid., p. 228.
* Ibid., pp. 244-5.
5 “ Magnificent sights, profound ideas
present themselves to the mind. They are powerless to explain in detail what
they have seen, however. This is not because the intelligence has been as it
were asleep, but because it has been raised to truths which are beyond the
strength of the human understanding. Ask a scholar to express the intricacies
of the infinitesimal calculus in the vocabulary of a child or an agricultural
labourer,” p. 253. The problems raised here are discussed in chapters VIII, IX,
and X of this book.
IV. The-
Distinguishing Traits of Supernatural Mysticism.
Individual mystics as well as the
Roman Church have laboured to separate “ true ” from “ false ” mysticism. They
have raised the question in this triple form : Is it a natural phenomenon ? Is
it the work of the devil ? Is it the work of God ? The task of differentiation
has proved most troublesome. General agreement seems, however, to have been
reached by mystics and theologians of the Roman Catholic Church, upon the eight
following characteristics1:
.„ t, i. Divine communications,
whether verbal or otherwise, possess greater distinctness and clearness than
either human or diabolical communications.
2.
They are expressed in us, but not by us : we listen, we are
passive. They are often heard when we are not thinking of the subject to which
they refer, and even when we are occupied with other thoughts.
3.
Their meaning possesses a transcendental character, beyond human
intelligence ; and is therefore usually incommunicable.
4.
The meaning they convey seems, in a mysterious way, independent of
the words used ; the same words may convey several meanings.
5.
They come with power and authority, and produce a deeper
and more lasting impression than natural words. .
.
6.
They produce peace in the soul. Worry, doubt, discourage- ■ ment, etc., vanish, and are replaced by joy and happiness or by^a
pain free from any distressing implication.
" 7. They stimulate progress in
the Christian virtues ; in
K particular, they incline to obedience, humility, and the praise
of God ; and they increase faith in the teachings of the Church.
8.
They have no bad physiological effects2. • - '
' ' r ,
1
Compare Poulain, loo. oil., pp. 303-6 ; A. B. Sharpe, Mysticism
: its True Nature and Value, London, Sands & Co., 1910, chap. IX, pp.
35-7, 159, ff. ; Josef Zahn, Finfuhrung in die Christliche Mystik, vol.
I, of the Wissenchaft- liche Handbibliothek, Paderborn, 1908, § 36, p.
427, and § 38, p. 486.
2
The reader may like to know Santa Theresa’s opinion on this topic.
It is in Inner Castle that her ripest judgment is found—a judgment
enlightened by long years of reflection and by discussions with several theologians.
In the third chapter of the Sixth Dwelling (pp. 426-8), she mentions five
traits which differentiate “ words ” of divine origin from others. But,
although she speaks with especial reference to divine manifestations in the
form of verbal guidance, in her opinion the traits mentioned apply to all
divine actions in man.
a.
Divine auditions express meaning so clearly and impress themselves
on the memory so deeply, that one cannot forget the slightest syllable ;
whereas, those that come from our imagination are far from possessing that
clearness. They resemble in a way, words heard in a dream.
b.
They are often heard when we are not at all thinking about the
subject to which they refer; and, at times, even when we are conversing about
otherIt will be observed that these traits fall into two categories : some of
them describe the experience itself, they are intrinsic to it; others are its
fruits. The intrinsic traits may be summed up in the words, suddenness,
unexpectedness, passivity, illumination or revelation, and ineffability. We
shall see in chapters IX and X that ecstasy regarded as “naturally” caused possesses
also these five characteristics.
However interesting to the
psychologist and significant to the experiencer himself the intrinsic
characters may be, they are quite useless when an objective test is required.
The director of souls, upon whom is thrust the awful task of recognizing the
true nature of alleged mystical experiences, has always relied as a matter of
fact either exclusively or mainly upon extrinsic traits, in particular, upon
the moral test and revelation. When the ecstatic seems to make moral progress
and is kept humble and submissive to the pronouncements of the Church, his
experiences are likely to be classed as true mysticism. No revelation, no
miracle, which causes moral or physical harm .or which contradicts established
Church truths, can be accounted divine1.
In Protestant circles, the facts which
are now most insisted upon as signs of the divine nature of mystical ecstasy
are also those listed under items six and seven2.
* * *
A Classification of Trances and Remarks regarding the
Conditions of their Production.
The trances falling within the scope
of this book may be classified under four rubrics : simple trance, ecstatic
trance, mystical trance, and ecstatic mystical trance. It is with
this as with any other classification,—there is no sharp line of demarcation
between the several kinds of trances ; and, moreover, varying degrees of
intensity of the several features of the trance produce great differences
within each class.
1.
Simple trance :—According
to the dictionary, a trance is " a state in which the soul seems passive,
or to have passed out of the body ; a state of insensibility to mundane
things.” In substantial agreement with this definition,
matters. Besides, they may have
reference to ideas that merely flit through the mind, or to ideas that have
passed, or to things of which we have never thought.
c.
The soul merely listens to the words that come from God ; whereas
it, itself, forms those that come from the imagination.
d.
A single one of these divine utterances expresses in a few words
that which our mind could express only in many.
e.
Divine words possess (in a way which she finds impossible to
describe) several meanings outside of the one they express by their sounds.—Inner
Castle, VI, 3, pp. 426-8. Compare this division of the traits
characteristic of true mystical ecstasy, with a division in three points, pp.
418-23.
1
Compare Hugel, loc. cit., II, p. 47, ff. ; Sharpe, loc.
cit., p. 160.
2
Delacroix has interesting remarks on the theology and the
psychology of Divine Grace in his section on Passivity, loc. cit., p.
397.
we have used the term to designate a
condition characterized by : (r) Partial or total disappearance of the sensory
and motor functions, which produces a more or less complete loss of the
awareness of the external world and of the body; (2) Reduction or total
cessation of the higher mental functions.
A trance is said to be complete when
every form of consciousness has ceased.
Were it not customary to use the word
trance only when the state described above is produced under unusual or
abnormal conditions, ordinary drowsy states and normal sleep would be called
trances.
The trances considered in this book
have usually been complicated by ecstatic feeling and are, therefore, not
simple trances. Had Tennyson been ingenuous enough to take his experience at
its immediate, crude value, instead of transforming it by giving it a
supernatural significance, the condition in which he placed himself by
repeating his own name would have been a simple trance.
2.
Ecstatic Trance :—The
common definition of ecstasy is " an exalted state of feeling which
engrosses the mind.” A state of feeling so intense that it absorbs the mind
produces the two characteristics mentioned above as those of trance. Every
ecstacy is, therefore, to some extent a trance.
The trance-ecstacy may rise to amazing
intensities of feeling and emotion while the awareness of the external world
decreases and, then, total unconsciousness may supervene more or less suddenly.
During certain phases of incomplete
ecstatic trance, and together with the wave of feeling and emotion, a
considerable intellectual activity may go on, as in the cases of Jean, of
Rousseau, and in the instance related by Dostoievsky. Under these circumstances,
nevertheless, whenever it is possible to appraise objectively the quality of
that activity, it is found that it falls far below the opinion of the ecstatic.
3.
Mystical Trance :—Trances
become mystical when they are regarded as divine possession or as due to a
divine intervention.
4.
Mystical Ecstatic Trance or, more simply, Mystical Ecstasy :—A Mystical trance which does not include ecstatic feelings, i.e.,
which is not an ecstatic mystical trance—is little more than a
theoretical possibility, for belief in a divine Presence can hardly fail to
arouse violent and engrossing emotions.
The preceding pages contain abundant
illustrations of this class of trance.
* * *
There are ecstasies, mystical and
otherwise, which are completely unpre- pared-for by the individual to whom they
come ; his will counts for nothing either in the time or in the form of the
primary phenomenon. Such are ecstatic prodromes of epilepsy, the cases (in
chapter ix) of M.E., of St Paul, of Symonds, and many instances among the great
mystics,—for instance, the ecstasy of St Catherine of Genoa when at confession.
But even in the completely
unprepared-for instances, the trance may be, as in the epileptic attack,
anticipated by means of warning signs. The Great Experience of Mlle Ve is
preceded, several days in advance, by certain vague impressions or symbolic
pictures. Much more definite and reliable are prodromes immediately preceding
her ecstasies. They indicate “ disturbances more or less profound of
circulation, respiration, muscular tonicity, sensibility, and probably of all
the other functions (if one could examine them)1.” These
disturbances “ correspond entirely to what may be observed in so many mediums
when they pass from the normal state to that of trance : the blood withdraws
from the extremities, they become cold ; at the same time the face is congested
; there is shivering and trembling ; the limbs become numb, “ jerks•” take
place and are followed by contractions or paralyses; touch sensibility is
dulled ; they complain of buzzing in the ears or of the sound of great waves ;
it seems to them, as to Mlle Ve, that their spirit detaches itself from matter,
leaves the body behind, ascends, flies, etc.1
There are also trances which follow
upon a preparation by the subject. At times, this amounts merely to the
production of conditions favourable to the appearance of the trance. It is,
then, merely facilitated, not completely determined. Mlle Ve could not get her
Great Experience exactly when she
1 Flournoy, loc. cit., pp. 177-8.
THE METHODS OF CHRISTIAN MYSTICISM 183
wanted it; but, by placing herself in a certain mental attitude, she could
increase the chances of its appearance.
In certain persons trance can be
brought about practically at will. They are induced, auto-suggestively,
according to the method of the Hindoo Yogin, of the Mahommedan Sufis, of
certain so-called spirit-mediums (Mrs. Piper, for instance).
In the lives of the Christian mystics
there is the sudden, unexpected rapture and there is the ecstasy prepared-for
and brought about by a fairly reliable technique. For persons in the
physiological condition of our great mystics, already habituated to the
mystical ecstasy, it is usually sufficient to conform to the directions set
down by the mystical masters in order to determine the love-ecstasy
characteristic of grand Christian mysticism.
There are, however, moments in the
life of all mystics when nothing more than peaceful somnolence can be produced
; neither the organic lovefactor nor any of the generators of
brain-storms—whatever they may be—can be made to function. There are also
periods when not even peaceful quiescence can be secured ; the soul remains
distracted and restless.
The passage from self-conscious
activity to that of entirely passive consciousness, and of the latter to total
unconsciousness, can, however, never be exactly anticipated. There remains
always, just as in the production of sleep, an undetermined, a surprise
element. Sleep also follows usually upon the realization of well-determined
conditions : a certain degree of fatigue, absence of disturbing sensations from
the external world and from the body, quiescence of the mind. Nevertheless, it
may be said of sleep also that it steals upon us with mysterious secrecy.
It may be added that the
unprepared-for trances are often the more violent. Ecstasies following upon the
practice of the mystical trance-technique, or of any other method, rarely find
in the nervous system conditions ripe for violent nervous discharges. The
trance is then limited to a delightful somnolence, bathed in love-feelings, or
it may develop further and bring on the complete " Sleep of the
Powers." When brain-storm factors are set off, the trance assumes the
violence of sudden and unprepared-for raptures.
THE MORAL
DEVELOPMENT OF THE GREAT MYSTICS AND ITS RELATION TO THE OSCILLATIONS OF THEIR
PSYCHO-PHYSIOLOGICAL LEVEL
The moral history of the great mystics is commonly regarded as a
progressive unfolding, culminating in a state of perfection; and
the various phases of depression and exaltation through which they pass are
thought to belong and to contribute, each in its turn, to that progression.
This is an inexact understanding of the facts. Like the course of most lives,
theirs is, on the whole, undoubtedly in the nature of a development, but the
oscillations of level do not constantly and of necessity bear to that
development the instrumental relation which is attributed to them.
Where the documents wrere
full enough we have been able to come to a definite conclusion regarding the
relation of the progressive moral growth to the oscillations of affective and
volitional level, and also regarding the degree of ethical perfection attained
by the mystics. With regard to both these aspects we have been led to differ
from the opinion common in the Church and also, in some respects, from that
expressed by psychological students. These conclusions may now be summarily
restated.
Factors of two orders—physiological
and psychical—acting either separately or conjointly, determine the so-called
periodicity of the lives of the mystics. Among the minor oscillations with a
purely physiological cause we have noticed, for instance, a period of
exaltation synchronous with a pregnancy, and we have learned that exaltation is
not a very rare occurrence in pregnant women. To the states of “ dryness ” no
moral cause can usually be ascribed, not even by the mystic himself.
Disconcerted and tormented by these
irrational, unjustifiable moods, he comes to regard them as God’s mysterious
way of punishing and purifying.
When the oscillations of energy and
affective tone remain within moderate limits, they are entirely commonplace and
normal. The forces of life ebb and flow more or less irregularly. In certain
individuals of the so-called artistic temperament these oscillations are better
marked than in others. They may even so far surpass the ordinary as to remind
one of a class of definite mental disorders called “ periodic psychosis,” “
circular insanity,” and the like.
In that class of disease, phases of
exaltation and of depression succeed each other more or less regularly. In the
great majority of instances it is not possible to refer the succession of
states to psychical causes. And when any exist, they seem accessory to the
physiological causes.
In so far as an alternation of states
is not caused by psychical factors, it constitutes a problem for the
physiologist and the medical man, and not for the psychologist. We may add that
as there is in our mystics no discernible regularity in the succession of
exaltations and depressions, the use of the term “ periodicity ” is here out of
place. It is, however, theoretically possible that a real periodicity would
come to light had we in the instance of any particular person an exact
knowledge of the dates of the appearance of every oscillation. Unfortunately
the biographical accounts left by the classical mystics are very far from
fulfilling that condition. The record kept by Mlle Ve of her ecstasies is the
only sufficiently complete and exact instance in our possession, and here
reference is not to “ dryness ” periods, but to ecstasies.
The number of days which elapsed
between each of her first sixteen ecstasies is respectively1: 5, 3,
11, 7, 8, 5, 8, 6, 7, 11, 5> 8, 9, 8, 7. If one supposes that unusual
circumstances, physiological, psychical, or both, retarded by three days the
second of the two ecstasies separated by eleven days, the last seven ecstasies
would follow each other at almost perfectly regular intervals: 7, 8, 8, 8, 9,
8, 7.
This regularity may have been due to a
connexion with sex functions, the ecstasy serving as a derivation or
sublimation. We know that Mlle Ve was afflicted with attacks of nymphomania and
that, in several instances, the connexion between sex and ecstasy forced itself
upon her attention2. But we may also see in this periodicity nothing
more than the expression of the general physiological antagonism between
fatigue and recuperation. The trances left her in a state of great fatigue, and
a certain interval between ecstasies was required for recovery3. In
any case we are to remember that, in so far as our knowledge goes, the
sex-function does not usually impose its rhythm on ecstasies.
1
Flournoy, Une Mystique Moderns, Archiv. de Psychol., vol.
XV, 1915, pp. 174-6.
2
See the case of Mlle Ve, chap. IX of this book.
3
Flournoy, Ibid., p. 125.
The irregularity of the earlier
ecstasies might be referred to the same kinds of causes as those determining
the irregularites observed at the beginning of the establishment of many
periodic physiological functions—of menstruation, for instance. If, after the
first sixteen, the ecstasies decreased greatly in frequency and became
irregular, it is because of the appearance of psychical factors antagonistic to
their production, in particular, growing doubts about their divineness.
Whatever periodic physiological basis
there may be for the appearance of ecstasy, the periodicity may be destroyed by
the influence of psychical factors. A chance event, making her feel her
loneliness, would stir up in Mlle Ve passionate yearnings for divine
companionship, and the coming of the Friend or of the great Experience would be
hastened. The role played by desire and expectation in the production of her
ecstasies seems to be indicated by the circumstances in which they decreased in
frequency and finally ceased altogether1.
The way in which accidental events, by
stimulating psychical forces, effect alterations of the mental level, appeared
with unusual definiteness and convincingness in our survey of the lives of
Santa Theresa and Mme Guyon. In the latter, an outbreak of love for a
Franciscan monk and, on another occasion, for Father la Combe, displaced a
period of misery and pessimism and ushered in frequent ecstasies and glorious
exaltation. In the case of St Theresa we saw how vividly chance occurrences
brought home to her a neglected ideal, led her to new resolves, and thus for a
while lifted her to new psychical levels. In Suzo, the gradual realization of
the futility of excessive asceticism, assisted by various chance occurrences,
finally reached a climax. With the throwing away of his instruments of torture,
he passed from a long period of depressed introversion to one of buoyant
practical activity.
The external and accidental factors
that impinge upon the inner life of the mystics, providing as it were the
occasions for crises and turning points, destroy any semblance to real
periodicity that might appear, were the inner growth independent of the multitudinous,
unpredictable, external impressions to which every individual is subject.
* * *
The systematizers among the mystics
have fallen into the surprisingly coarse error of confusing degrees of ecstatic
trance with degrees of moral perfection. The cause of the confusion is clear.
If ecstasy is, as they think, union with God, then the more deep or 1
See chap. IX of this book.
complete
it is, the more perfect is that union : the depth of trance measures therefore
the nearness to perfection, and complete tranceunconsciousness means complete
union of the individual with the divine Will. We have shown that Santa Theresa
slipped into a double error of fact when she set forth the moral development of
the soul as proceeding parallel to the increasing depth of ecstasy : (1)
Ecstatic trance does not usually develop according to the graded scheme set
forth by her. It happens not infrequently that the very first trance-experience
reaches an intensity of feeling, a rapturous quality, never to be surpassed and
that it ends in a moment of complete unconsciousness. (2) The self-surrender of
the Christian to God and his active life in unison with God (i.e., the perfect
Christian life as the Church conceives of it) are not identical to the
passivity and unconsciousness of the trance-experience or, in general, to
states of automatism controlled by the thought of God.
The
confusion involved in the theory of St Theresa has obscured not only the vision
of theologians but even, to some extent, that of scientific students of
mysticism. It has not, however, deeply affected the lives of the mystics. The
final period (period of external activity in the service of God), when,
according to their own opinion, they were closest to God, gives the lie to the
theory of perfection in passivity.Far from being passive tools in God's hands,
sheer automata, they were self-determined individuals, even though their
purposes were regarded by them as conforming to the divine Will. Suzo on his
apostolic visits, discoursing upon the love of God; Catherine of Genoa,
managing her hospital as a Good Samaritan; Santa Theresa, engaged in her
life-work as a founder of reformed monasteries, were perfectly self-conscious
and self-determined. The wonders of trance and of drowsy abstraction had lost
much of their initial glamour and, together with extreme asceticism, had
receded to a subordinate place. Despite their theories, these mystics had come
to realize very definitely that the perfect condition of the Christian is not
one of inactive delight in God’s sensuous favours, or of automatic,
somnambulistic activity. They knew that his goal is not the kind of union with
God and the kind of sinlessness characteristic of the passivity of trance, but
rather the elimination of evil promptings or at least the ability always to
overcome them, and a steadfast activity controlled by conscious purposes in
agreement with God’s Will. Ecstasy and.other moments of passivity or automatism
were, in their matured opinion, exceptional favours granted by God for
encouragement . and reward.
There is
no true periodicity either in the course of the moral development or in the
succession of the states of exaltation and depression which diversify the lives
of the great mystics. And, although these states, and also the ecstasies, each
exert their influence, it would be a mistake to regard them as having a fixed
place in a systematic development. They usually happen at unpredictable moments
as the result of a combination of internal and external forces; and it seems
evident that the same goal would have been reached even if the number of these
oscillations and their timedistribution had been entirely different.
* * *
The more significant junctures in the
moral history of our mystics are, it seems to us, the decision to seek in a
religious rather than in the social world the gratification of fundamental
tendencies and desires ; the exclusion, from the idea of the self, of the
tendencies and desires regarded as evil; the decisions taken in important and
definitely localized conflicts between the natural and the spiritual man ; and
the resolution to turn away from extreme asceticism and introversion to an
active life devoted to social welfare.
The inner forces entering as an
essential part into the production and the solution of these crises consist in
various tendencies and desires, in the organization of some of these into
ideals, in the strength and persistency of the impulses supporting these
ideals, and in the influence of the general physiological condition of the
individual upon energy and persistency in their pursuit. The influence of the
religious atmosphere, which the mystics breathed, upon the formation of their
ideal and upon their efforts to realize it, must not be exaggerated ; for, the
initial steps once taken, they moved on the whole in advance of the religious
communities to which they belonged.
The periods of exaltation (including
ecstasies) and of depression have in themselves no ethical significance.
Neither enjoyment nor suffering bears a direct, definite connection with the
formation of character. Each may have a negative or a positive influence upon
ethical development. The beneficial influence of the tranceecstasies due to
drugs or of those that arise spontaneously is, when they are considered in
themselves, limited at best to a relaxation of muscular strain and to a rest
from the effort of adaptation to the demands of civilized life. It is only in
so far as the mystical states are interpreted that they become factors in
character formation. When the periods of exaltation and the ecstasies are taken
as indications of the approval of a righteous and loving God, they result in a
stimulation of the tendencies in harmony with the divine Will. And when the
moments of “ dryness ” are regarded as punishments from Above and indications
of a fall from divine favour, their influence may either bring discouragement
and even despair, or incite to new efforts in order to regain the lost
companionship. Whatever the degree of agreeableness or disagreeableness of what
befalls the mystic, when he regards his fortunes as God’s way of fulfilling a
benevolent purpose, his various experiences are turned into instruments of
moral achievement.
* * *
In so far as the mystical form of
worship involves moments of restricted mental activity, i.e., trance-states of
various degrees of depth, during which the mind is focussed upon the perfect
Object, it possesses a particular efficacy, the explanation of which lies in
the fact that a trance., is a condition of increased suggestibility, with
regard to the tendencies, desires, and ideas that dominateit.
* * *
Did the great mystics obtain that
which they set out to find when they embraced the religious life ? As in the
case of every human being, their main demands were for self-affirmation, the
esteem of others, self-esteem, and love. And they did find recognition, love,
and moral guidance in their relations with God and with the religious community
in which they lived.
The satisfaction of these fundamental
human needs resulted in a substantial unification of personality. The latter
parts of the careers of our mystics show them able to manifest the whole energy
of synthesized beings in the fulfilment of tasks considered as assigned by God
himself and achieved in close collaboration, or even in union, with him.
Regarding themselves as divine instruments in the establishment of a new social
order, the Kingdom of God upon earth, their life became one of joyful activity
broken only by transports of surpassing love and peaceful rest. We make the
above statements of fact without attempting to estimate the real social value
of the mystics’ achievements.
But if we were to ask whether the
mystics realized in themselves the Christian ideal of moral perfection ;
whether the divine, the socialized will altogether displaced in them the
egoistic, “ natural ” man, our answer would have to be in the negative in so
far at least as Mme Guyon, St Theresa and St Marguerite Marie are concerned.
They fell far short of their ethical goal and approached it no nearer than did
a host of inconspicuous Christians. For a justification of this opinion, we
refer the reader to the biographical chapter. Francis of Assisi, Catherine of
Genoa, and others appear to have travelled further along the road to Christian
perfection ; but, concerning them and most Christian mystics, the available
information is too scanty to permit an assured opinion.
We are to recall that if the
establishment of God’s Will in them, and of His Kingdom upon earth, came to
occupy the first place in the concerns of our great mystics, it played a quite
inconspicuous role in their determination to enter the religious life.
Self-regarding motives, egoistic in character, were the main determinants of
their decision to renounce the World for the companionship of God. And,
regarding the nature and quality of the ideal which they came to pursue with
much ardour, it must be said that these mystics were in no wise innovators they
found it in the Christianity of their time. It is by their radicalism in the
pursuit of that ideal, and by the methods through which they chose to realize
it, that they singled themselves out from other Christians.
Critical notes on Delacroix and
Hocking.—Delacroix achieved a
substantial progress over his predecessors in the understanding of the
unfolding of the. mystical life. We can say with him, " Ecstasy does not
realize the aim of the mystic, he seeks beyond it. He aspires to a total
transformation of the personality.” “ Thus the mystic has rejected that form of
divine contemplation, the ecstasy, which was incompatible with life, because,
if permanent, it would have destroyed life. He has passed beyond contemplation
in order to reach action1.”
But where, as in the following
quotations, he describes the final condition of the mystic as characterized by
passivity and the abolition of the feeling of self, we must disagree with him.
He seems to us to have been in this respect influenced too much by the theory
of the mystics and not enough by the facts which that theory is supposed to
represent: ** Deprived of self-consciousness (conscience de soi),
plunged in a sort of essential felicity and continuous ecstasy, provided when
necessary with precise ideas and moved to timely actions, the mystic has really
fulfilled the conditions of deification.” " The development of passivity,
the abolition of the feeling of self, do away with that distinction and that
alternation (depression and exaltation). In a kind of total automatism, they
realize an impersonal and uniquely divine life
.”
This description of the final
condition of the mystic fits certain oriental and inferior Christian mystics,
but not those we have studied, not, in general, the mystics recognized by the
Church as great. Many of these, however, have passed through phases
corresponding to that picture.
* * *
Reference should be made here to
Hocking’s Principle of Alteration. There are men who plunge into the
detailed study of facts with a single-mindedness such that their creative
imagination is endangered, and there are men who impatiently shake, the dust of
facts from their wings and soar gloriously The first are called scientists, the
second philosophers. In the Meaning of God in Human Experience, Hocking
is primarily a philosopher and his Principle of Alternation (pp. 405s), however
enlightening it may be in other connexions, is of little use when one seeks to
account for the specific oscillations observed in mystical life.
THE GREAT MYSTICS, HYSTERIA AND
NEURASTHENIA1
Much that has been reported in the biographical chapter points to the
presence in our great mystics of nervous disorders, and perhaps of hysteria.
Because that disease has long been supposed to be always connected with sexual
and moral perversions, to convict a person of hysteria has been regarded as
equivalent to a moral condemnation. As this opinion is no longer accepted in
authoritative medical circles, a belief in the moral integrity of a person need
no longer prevent the recognition of the presence in him of that disease.
We shall come to the conclusion that
St Catherine of Genoa, Santa Theresa, Mme Guyon and St Marguerite Marie
suffered from hysterical attacks. As to most of the other mystics mentioned in
this book, our knowledge is too scanty to permit a reliable opinion. Whether or
not our diagnosis be correct, we hold that the former separate themselves
clearly from the insignificant and worthless individuals who, until recently,
were regarded as the only possible sufferers from hysteria. It is with this
disease as with epilepsy: most epileptics are degenerates, and generally
inefficient persons ; but a small number—a Napoleon, a Dostoievsky—have
combined epilepsy with genius. We draw attention to this occasional
co-existence without feeling called upon to account for it.
It should be borne in mind also that
even though great mystics should be hysterical, it is obvious that the moderate
mysticism, common in the rank and file of worshippers of almost every Christian
sect, is entirely free from that disease.
As no structural alteration of the
nervous system has been found, hysteria is spoken of as a functional, and not
an organic, disease. And there are even people who include among its symptoms
only what can be both produced and destroyed by suggestion
. In this view either the
patient suggests to himself the disorders from
1 The main ideas expressed in this chapter are to be foun d in our
articles onTthe Christian Mystics published in the Rev. Philos, for
1902.
which he suffers, or they are
suggested to him. But it must be recalled that a condition of excessive
suggestibility points to an abnormal condition of the nervous system.
The most characteristic symptoms of
hysteria are anaesthesia, hyperaesthesia, paralysis, and contracture. These
involve a part or the whole of a limb, or one side of the body, or even the
whole of it. They may appear and disappear without apparent reason and their
duration varies from the briefest moment to several years. The anaesthesia may
bear upon the feeling of hunger, and then the patient may refuse food and fast
during incredibly long periods with relatively little observable inconvenience.
If the patient eats, the food is ejected. To this intolerance there are curious
exceptions, which point to the role played by auto-suggestion : everything
except the consecrated wafer of the Eucharist may, for instance, be vomited.
Spasms of the pharynx [globus hystericus) may make swallowing
impossible.
The motor disturbances assume a great
variety of forms. Although the limbs are not paralyzed, there may be an
inability to perform some specific movement. The patient may, for instance, not
be able to walk and yet may be able to dance. Not infrequently there are
violent attacks resembling more or less closely an epileptic fit of haut
mat, but without entire loss of consciousness.
In addition to anaesthesia and
hyperaesthesia, other sensory disturbances are frequently observed—in
particular hallucinations of colour, of smell, of taste, etc. Moments of mental
vacuity, of semi-sleep, and sharp pain in the head, around the heart, or
elsewhere, are not uncommon.
Hysteria develops usually upon the
ground of a predisposing temperament; but there is little need of predisposition
when the person is submitted to sufficiently strong or lasting influences,
favourable to the production of the disease. Mental or physical exhaustion, or
a great emotional shock, may be its immediate cause. It breaks out often in
connection with the activity of the reproductive functions ; it is, for
instance, relatively frequent at puberty, in pregnancy, in diseases of the
uterus, and at the climacteric change.
It will occur to the reader that
potent predisposing causes of mental instability were probably innately present
in our great J mystics. “ The quickly and intensely impressionable, nervous, and
extremely tense and active physical and psychical organization1”
characteristic of Catherine of Genoa were equally characteristic of Santa Theresa
and of Mme Guyon.
1 Hugel, loc. cit., vol. I, pp. 97, 119.
The inaptitude of our mystics for
ethical compromise is probably due in part to their hair-trigger,
hypersensitive nervous organisation. It is to that trait that they owe much of
their remarkable absolutism in matters of conscience and of love. In tougher
persons, moral considerations and scruples are more evanescent and physical
love is not so easily discouraged. In them, the wear and tear of contradiction,
the chafing of opposed tendencies, is not great enough to be unbearable. Not so
with our mystics: mental conflicts are to them unendurable ; they must be
solved. But why are they not content to solve them by letting themselves down
to the level of the “ natural ” man, instead of tenaciously insisting that they
must end with its subjugation and the victory of the “ spiritual ” man ? This
trait, the importance of which we have already sufficiently indicated, is one
of the traits which singles them out as belonging to a class other than that of
the ordinary hysterical sufferers.
Already predisposed by their
temperament to certain nervous disorders, these great mystics were almost
unavoidably condemned to them by the circumstances of their lives. It has
become more and more recognized that a prolific, if not the most prolific,
source of psycho7neurosis is an abnormal sexual life. None of our
great mystics enjoyed a normal sex-life ; either they lived unmarried and under
an exciting love-influence—the women in contemplation of the Heavenly Bridegroom,
the men of the Holy Virgin ; or, they were married without finding in that
relation the physiological and the moral satisfaction which it should give. The
section of this book treating of the sex-motive in mysticism offers undeniable
evidence of recurrent attacks of erotomania in connexion with love-ecstasies.
To that potent inciting cause of
nervous disorders was added the exhaustion systematically induced in ascetic
struggles against the flesh—struggles lasting for years and associated with periods
of depression and general moral misery, sufficiently long, frequent, and
intense to reduce vitality to a dangerously low level. Who, knowing these
facts, would be much astonished at hysterical outbreaks ?
But we must turn from the
consideration of probable causes to that of actual symptoms which, in our
opinion, justify the diagnosis of hysteria. Every one of the symptoms mentioned
above appears repeatedly in St Catherine of Genoa-, St Theresa, Mme Guyon, and
most of them also in St Marguerite Marie. We shall briefly set them forth in
the case of the first two of these prominent mystics. As to the others, the
reader may refer to the biographical chapter and, for fuller information, to
the original documents.
Hysterical symptoms in St Catherine of
Genoa.—Our information regarding
this Saint is drawn from the Vita, as presented by her admiring
biographer, Friederich von Hugel. Phenomena symptomatic of hysteria, or related
to it, were observed at various periods of her life, but it is during her last
four years that attacks of the character now to be described became frequent.
She would experience sensations of extreme heat and cold, not related to the
external temperature, and also an excessive sensibility or insensibility to
touch : “ One day she suffered great cold in her right arm, followed by acute
pain.” “ At times she would be sensitive to such a degree that it was
impossible to touch her sheets or a hair of her head ; she would, if this were
done, cry out as though she had been grievously wounded.” Again, at another
time, “ she had another attack (assalto), when all her body trembled,
especially her right shoulder. It was impossible to move her from her bed ; she
did not eat, drank next to nothing, and did not sleep.” On another day, “ she
had another attack, a spasm in the throat and mouth, so that she could not
speak, nor open her eyes, nor keep her breath except with extreme difficulty.”
“ In her flesh were certain concavities, as though it were dough, and the thumb
had been pressed into it.” On another day “ her pains made her call out as
loudly as she could, and she dragged herself about on her bed. And those that
stood by were dumbfounded at seeing a body, which appeared to be healthy, in
such a tormented state. And then she would laugh, speak as one in health, and
say to the others not to be sorrowful on her account, since she was very
contented. And this lasted four days ; she then had a little rest; and, after
this those attacks returned as before.” Recovery from excruciating painful
attacks was frequently as sudden as the onslaught of the disease itself. This
is a well-known feature of hysteria.
On August 22nd or 23rd, she had an
attack and “ remained maimed (paralyzed) in her right hand and in one finger of
the left hand. And then she remained as though dead for about sixteen hours.” “
She would, at times, be so thirsty as to feel capable of drinking all the water
of the sea, and yet she could not, as a matter of fact, manage to swallow even
one little drop of water .” Her biographers report that, nevertheless, she continued to
receive the Holy Communion with ease and safety—and in this, they will be
readily believed by those who are familiar with hysterical phenomena: the
symptoms are determined to a very great extent—altogether, say some authorities—by
the mental attitude and expectations (autosuggestion) of the person.
The frequent and prolonged fasts which
Catherine inflicted upon herself, with no evil effect apparent to those about
her, were the object of their admiration and are still regarded to-day by
writers on mysticism as proof of miraculous intervention. If one may trust the
exactness of her biographers, she went during perhaps twenty years, “ for
some thirty days in Advent and some forty in Lent, with all but no food;
and was, during these fasts, at least as vigorous and active as when her
nutrition was normal.” Hugel offers this naturalistic explanation of the
miracle : " These fruitful fasts were accompanied, and no doubt rendered
possible, by the second great psychical peculiarity of these middle years, her
ecstasies.” These two peculiarities, as he calls them, “ arise, persist, and
then fade out of her life together.” Now, if one bears in mind that Catherine
was “ often in a more or less ecstatic trance from two to eight hours ” (every
day, he seems to mean) ; that, in this condition, “ the respiration, the
circulation, and the other physical functions are all slackened and simplified
” ; and, finally, that the mind is then “ occupied with fewer, simpler ideas .
. . and that the emotions and the will are, for the time, saved the conflict
and confusion, the stress and the strain, of the fully waking moments1,”
it will seem natural enough that during the shortened time of full wakefulness
Catherine enjoyed what seemed to casual observers a normal strength and
activity. That this behaviour, continued during twenty years was, nevertheless,
together with her abnormal sexual life, the probable main cause of her ultimate
breakdown, is a likely conjecture. The moment came when she had to give up
these extravagant fasts and would find it necessary “ owing to her great bodily
weakness . . . even after Communion, to take some food2.” At this
stage, even when she realized her need of food, she no longer could digest what
would have been necessary to a healthy life.
The remarks offered by Hugel in
explanation of Catherine’s fasts are supported in a striking way by the
observations of P. Janet and Ch. Richet upon the ecstatic Madeline. During the
periods of frequent ecstasies, she, like other ecstatics, did with an amount of
food which would have been “ quite insufficient to others, without, however,
suffering a reduction in weight3.”
The voluntary and prolonged fasts met
with in great mystics should be considered in connexion with “ hysterical anorexy,”
a disorder consisting chiefly in the systematic refusal of food, in
1
Hugel, loc. cit., vol. II, pp. 33-4.
2
Ibid., p. 148.
3
Une Extatique, loc. cit., p. 227.
certain digestive disturbances, and in
consequent inanition. In Major Symptoms of Hysteria,1 Janet
describes, and considers theoretically, that interesting disorder. The
following information is drawn almost verbatim from that book.
Anorexy constitutes very often an
early manifestation of hysteria. It is never of brief duration and often
continues for many years. When it does, it does not involve a constant refusal
of all food. Even when the fast has lasted for years and has been fairly
rigorous, the person may seem to be in good health ; he may even show “ a
greatly exaggerated physical and moral activity2.” Sooner or later,
however, comes the period of inanition, the bodily weight, so far relatively
well maintained, now falls rapidly. The patient remains in bed in a
semi-delirious, semi-comatose condition.
Janet distinguishes between a refusal
of food due to a fixed idea and true anorexy ; the latter involves the
disappearance of hunger, probably because of an anaesthesia of the stomach. The
first is found in the psychasthenic neuroses while the latter is an occasional
symptom of hysteria.
With these crumbs of knowledge
regarding anorexy, and with the incomplete information given us about St
Catherine by Hugel, we may not be able to determine with assurance whether the
“ fasts ” of that Saint were really manifestations of anorexy, but we have at least
seen that the maintenance of weight and of strength during surprisingly long
fasts, even in persons who do not spend much of their time in ecstasy, is a
fact susceptible of explanation. We have understood also that these fasts,
despite their apparent harmlessness, were probably the main cause of the final
break-down of that unfortunate woman.
A final word must be said regarding
moments of mental vacuity met with among patients suffering from hysteria and
related disorders. Instances are to be found in the Vita, but fuller
descriptions are given by St Theresa and by Mme Guyon. During a certain period
of her life, the latter would fall into a somnolence in which impressions from
without were perceived either vaguely or not at all. This would come upon her
at any hour, wherever she happened to be and whatever she might be doing. One
day, when her sick husband inquired about the condition of the garden, she
went to it, at his repeated request, “more than ten times without seeing
anything^ ” !
1
Major Symptoms of Hysteria, Macmillan, New York, 1907, p. 228.
2
Loc. cit., p. 231.
For an explanation of this fact, see the following pages.
3
Instances of this mental vacuity will be found in P. Sollier, Gentse
et Nature de I’Hysitrie, vol. I, pp. 266, 267. The remarks under Troubles
de 1‘Attention, and Reverie, in Janet’s Les Obsessions et la
Psychasthenic, vol. I, pp. 362-9, are instructive in this connexion.
Hysterical symptoms in Santa Theresa.—In the Revue des Questions Scientifiques for 1883, there
appeared a paper by a Jesuit, G. Hann, on Hysterical Phenomena and the
Revelations of Santa Theresa1. This essay, crowned at a
competition at Salamanca, was subsequently put on the Index. In that paper the
author, who had studied under Charcot and other physiologists, drew a very
faithful picture of the Saint’s ailments and concluded thus : “ We are in the
presence of an instance of organic hysteria as characteristic as possible ;
the disease reaches in truth its highest limit. . . . It is the Grande
Hysterie with its prodromes, its contractures, z and its attacks
which recall closely the frightful fits of epilepsy.” At the same time, Hahn
indicated features which separate the Saint from the great majority of
hysterical patients, and he offered reasons for his belief that her “
revelations,” or at least some of them are not of a purely natural origin.
It will be convenient to follow this
Roman Catholic author in his demonstration of hysteria. It consists essentially
of quotations from Theresa’s Autobiography and of corresponding
citations descriptive of hysterical symptoms—these latter quotations we shall
place in parenthesis.
Theresa’s nervous affection broke out
violently during her novitiate and was for three years the cause of almost
constant suffering. She relates that, in entering upon the holy life, she had
reached the satisfaction of her highest wishes, but she adds, “ in spite of so
much happiness, my health did not resist the change of life and of food. My
weakness (defaillances') increased, and I suffered from nausea so
acutely that it frightened me. To this was added a complication of other ills.
. . . My disease became so serious that I was nearly always on the point of
fainting. Often I even lost consciousness altogether2.”
She journeyed to a small town in quest
of medical assistance but without success : “ The disease of which I hoped to
be cured had only become worse; the pains about the heart were so acute that it
seemed at times as if it was being torn to pieces by sharp teeth. (“ Cardiac
palpitations have a large place in the prodromal stage of the attack of
hystero-epilepsy. All the patients complain of them.”— Richer, Etudes
Cliniques, p. 19). . . . My weakness was extreme; an excessive disgust for
food did not allow me to take
1
G. Hahn, Les Phinom&nes Hyst&riques et les
Riv&lations de Sainte Thirdse. S.J., Rev. des Questions
Scientifiques, Bruxelles, 1883, vol. XIII, XIV, in three parts. The
hysteria described by Hahn is the one known to the School of Charcot.
2
This and the following quotations are taken by Hahn from the
French edition of Santa Theresa’s Life, published by P. Bouix, Paris,
1852.
any food except liquids. (“ Digestive
disturbances seem constant. The patient has no appetite, or taste is perverted.
Frequently, the patient vomits almost immediately what he has absorbed. Between
the meals, nausea may appear as the result of spasmodic contractions of the diaphragm
and of the oesophagus.”—Ibid, p. 16). ... I felt as if burned by an
internal fire. My nerves contracted, with pain so intolerable that I had
neither day nor night a moment of rest. To this was added a deep sadness. That
is what I gained by the journey.”
“ Four days of frightful attacks ”
stood out conspicuously in her memory: ‘‘.My tongue was torn to pieces from
having been bitten. (“ The mouth opens wide, the tongue sometimes is projected
outwardly and moves from right to left.”—Ibid, p. 46. If during the
spasmodic movements the mouth closes, the tongue may be bitten. This
occasionally happens during the seizures.) As I had eaten nothing during this
interval, and as I was so weak that I could hardly breathe, my throat was so
dry that it would not admit even a drop of water. (Hahn tells us that a more
exact rendering of the original Spanish would be : “I felt stifled at
the throat, so that I could not even swallow a drop of water.” This would
indicate, unmistakably, he thinks, the presence of the “globus
hystericus.’’) My body felt as if dislocated, and I suffered from dizziness
in my head. My nerves were so contracted that I was gathered together as in a
ball. I could not without help move either arms, or feet, or hands, or head; I
was as motionless as if death had stiffened my limbs ; I had merely the
strength to move one finger of the right hand. People hardly dared approach me
; my whole body was sadly bruised, I could not stand the contact of any hand ;
I had to be moved with the help of a sheet which two persons held at each end.
(“ The frigidity of the limbs is such that the patient may be displaced, put on
the stomach or on the side, without changing his attitude.” “ The general
contraction may be so painful as to force dreadful cries from the patient.”—Ibid,
pp. 74,141.) . . . During nearly three years I remained paralyzed.
Nevertheless, I grew slowly better, and when, with the help of my hands, I
began to drag myself a little upon the ground, I returned thanks to God.”
Ultimately, with the help of St
Joseph, she recovered entirely from her paralysis, but various other symptoms
returned as late as the writing of the Azdobiography and of Inner
Castle. One reads in the latter, ‘‘Asi write these lines, I pay attention
to what goes on in my head, that is to say to that great noise of which I spoke
at the beginning, the noise which has almost made it impossible for me to do
this writing asked for by my superiors. It seems like the noise of many large
rivers, of an infinite number of birds singing, and of sharp whistles ; I don’t
hear these noises in my ears, but I feel them at the top of my head.” ("
Nearly all the patients hear whistling in the ears, always more intensely on
the side of the hemianaesthesia. They hear as the rolling of wagons, the ringing
of bells, the sound of brass bands. L. hears birds singing in his head.”—Ibid,
p. 21.)
Many if not all the symptoms mentioned
above are now regarded as indicative of the high degree of suggestibility
characteristic of the hysterical condition. Mme Guyon has provided us with
striking instances of suggestibility. We recall in particular how, having
fallen from her horse and resumed her journey, she felt impelled as by an
external force to fall on the same side ; and she had to resist by throwing herself
with all her might in the opposite direction. We reported also that during a
severe illness marked by paralyses, contractures, hyperesthesias, etc., she
returned to "the state of the child.” The amazed Father la Combe would say
to her, “ It is not you, but a little child that I see.” Similar instances,
altogether disconnected from the religious life, are recorded in works on
psychasthenia and hysteria. Janet speaks of persons who "play a sort of
comedy; they make themselves small, naive, wheedling; they pretend ignorance
and like to be regarded as ‘ a little stupid.’ This is because they want to be
guided, . . . They want to be amused, played with ; in a word, they want to be
treated like children1.” “ Qi., a woman thirty-five years old, is
haunted by the desire to skip a rope, to clip her hair short, to let it down.
There is here clearly an obsession.” She explains her underlying feelings thus
: “ I would so much like to be small, to have a father and mother to hold me on
their laps, to pat my head. . . . But, no, I am Madame, mother, housekeeper; I
must be serious, think out alone my problems. O, what a life2! ” The
idea of the child Jesus, the object of her love, haunted Mme Guyon. In her
suggestible condition her yearning worked itself out into the mimicry of a
child.
* * *
The facts and considerations contained
in the preceding pages lead inevitably, it seems, to the conclusion that our
great mystics have suffered at various moments from symptoms characteristic of
hysteria. Equally unavoidable, however, is the conviction that the hysterical
sufferers ordinarily described by the psychiatrist do not match these mystics
point by point. It cannot truly be said of the latter, as it can of the former,
that they are purposeless weathercocks,
1
Janet, Les Obsessions et la Psychasthinie, Paris, 1903,
vol. I, p. 391.
2
Ibid., p. 392.
200
PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM incapable of energetic, sustained, and
intelligent effort for the realization of rational purposes.
It is with the symptoms of hysteria as
with those of epilepsy: they appear in persons of widely different types.
Sufferers from these disorders may be compared to machines with the same defect
or group of defects. These may coexist with great differences in power, in
quality of the material, in finish, and even in structure. Once let the defect
be corrected, the several machines will prove themselves efficient in widely
different degrees. As the human organism is infinitely more complicated than
any man-made machine, the possible differences between persons afflicted by the
same symptoms are far more numerous than in machines.
If sufficiently abused, the human
body, like any machine, will break down at some particular point. Our great
mystics were submitted to conditions of life so severely and persistently
adverse to health that even the stoutest nervous system might have been
expected to yield to the strain. This is particularly true of St Catherine of
Genoa and of Mme Guyon, in whom the sex-needs, in their physiological and
psychical aspects, as well as other fundamental needs and desires, were baulked
and repressed in year-long conflicts. Suzo’s and St Theresa’s lots were less
unfortunate. Yet they also had to live a life of continence and they were for
years divided souls with regard to the things which most matter to man. Because
of the ideal they had formed and of the method of life they had chosen, their
deepest instincts and desires could not be gratified in the ordinary way. And
they aggravated repressions and conflicts, in themselves sufficient to cause a
variety of psychoses, by excessive and persistent ascetic practices, and thus
exhausted themselves to the point of inanition. How many persons about us who
successfully live a normal life would have withstood the ordeals to which these
people have been subjected ?
The great mystics and neurasthenia.—Janet has given us a minute and masterly analysis of the
characteristics of non-hysterical psychopaths1, whom he classes
together as manifesting a general psycho-physiological insufficiency. They
suffer from an abnormal scrupulosity; they hesitate, deliberate endlessly, are
afraid to conclude and to act; and this not only when commonsense would dictate
extreme caution, but concerning insignificant matters or problems which normal
minds would simply set aside as insoluble. Moreover, they are fickle and
without constancy of purpose. They
1 In Medications Psychologiques and in earlier books. It is
unnecessary for our purpose to attempt to draw any distinction between "
neuropathy ” and “ psychopathy.”
are in general abnormally dependent
upon external sources of strength and in particular upon affection and love.
As life is usually too complicated for
them to cope with it successfully, they seek consciously or unconsciously to
simplify it; they may cut themselves off entirely from society and live in
seclusion. They are given to day-dreaming and to moments of mental vacuity
during which they appear almost bereft of their senses. Feelings of
dissatisfaction with themselves, of ennui, and of " incompleteness ” are
common. They exhibit at times a shocking callousness.
The connexion existing between these
various traits is obvious. A silly scrupulosity, a diffidence and inability to
act, a desire to simplify one’s life, an inordinate craving for the support of
authority and affection, mental vacuity, obsession, and monoideism—are all
traits which may easily be conceived as proceeding from one and the same root,
namely, a general psycho-physiological insufficiency.
Our great mystics manifest many or
even all of these symptoms, but a careful observation of their behaviour
reveals that (except perhaps during the brief moments when the intensity of
their inner conflicts and the severity of their asceticism have temporarily
disabled them) they do not have the same significance as in the ordinary
patients of the psychiatrist.
The withdrawal of the mystics to
religious communities has not the same meaning as the isolation of the
psychopathic patient whose energy and mental resources are insufficient to meet
the complexities of ordinary social life. If these mystics refused to accept
life as it presented itself to them before they embraced the holy life, it was
not primarily because of its complications but because it lacked qualities
without which life was for them not worth living. They withdrew to the
comparative seclusion of convents with the purpose of finding a new life which
would gratify their fundamental cravings. And it was not without an impressive
display of perseverance that most of them achieved their separation from the
World. The obstacles which they overcame would have been effective bars for
ordinary persons. And when, long after her novitiate, St Theresa felt that she
ought to give up the few worldly relations she had kept, it was not in order to
reduce her life to a manageable point. As a matter of fact she desired and
enjoyed company; but, as it kept awake pride and vanity, she felt that it was
to be renounced.
When these mystics struggle with their
conscience about going out in decollete, receiving a friendly visitor, eating a
dainty morsel, or otherwise gratifying their senses, they are not displaying
the scrupulosity of the asylum patient who refuses to eat certain dishes, is in
dread of becoming too lean or too fat, must have his bed made in a particular
way, does not dare utter certain words, etc. When self-indulgence is regarded
as a cardinal sin (as it was in their religious world) to undertake a war to
the death against fleshly inclinations is not necessarily a sign of insane
scrupulosity. Their conduct in this connexion was logically determined by a
theory widely accepted in the Christian Church, and their practice differed
from that of the ordinary Christian in no other way than in being radical: they
sought to achieve completely that which others were satisfied to get partially.
The remorse they felt at their failures proceeded from the consciousness of the
failure of the spirit to be master in its tenement of clay. The persistency
with which they sought to use their suffering, whether self-inflicted or
otherwise, for the furtherance of this great purpose, is one of the striking
aspects of their lives. There is nothing which they do not venture to construe
so as to make it grist to their mill. To what extravagant length they have gone
in that direction is well illustrated by St Catherine when she was suffering
from hysterical attacks.
The great mystics aimed not at simplification
as such, but rather at a unification which would give the mastery to the
impulses and desires regarded as of God. The ordinary psychopath has no such
purpose : he seeks the elimination of the more difficult social
relations, i.e., a descent to an easier level of life.
As to their alleged aboulia and need
of external support, no one aware of the relation which existed between them
and their religious directors will be inclined to deny that the latter were, on
the whole, directors in name only, and that, at times, they were reduced to the
rank of servants. Their lives once reorganized, unified on a higher level, the
great mystics sallied forth into the World and proved themselves men and women
of action of no mean ability. In this connexion we need only recall St
Catherine’s management of a large hospital, St Theresa’s operations as
foundress of monasteries, and Mme Guyon’s and Suzo’s apostolic activities. Mlle
Ve was the successful director of an educational institution.
Without making light of the abnormal
nature of periods of deep depression, of certain extravagances of behaviour,
and of ecstatic trances conspicuous in the great mystics, and without
forgetting that in them accidental causes of psychasthenia and hysteria acted
upon temperamental predispositions to nervous instability and to dissociation,
one may nevertheless reject the opinion according to which these symptoms of
nervous disorder identify them with ordinary psychopaths and are necessarily
indicative of a general mental and moral worthlessness. Identity of symptom
does not mean identity of person. Deep oscillations of emotional tone,
ecstasies, and even hysterical attacks do not necessarily imply the
intellectual and moral insufficiency characteristic of Madeleine and her class.
They may on the contrary be allied with traits which make the genius.
ECSTASY, RELIGIOUS AND OTHERWISE : A COMPARATIVE
STUDY
I. Spontaneous Ecstasies.
In the course of the preceding
descriptions of Christian mysticism, many problems have been raised and a few
have been answered. But the psychological investigation of the mystical ecstasy
and of its several constituent or attendant phenomena is a task that remains
before us. For the accomplishment of that task the ground has been prepared by
introducing at the beginning of this book a study of the older and simpler
forms of mystical ecstasy—those known to savages and to Hindoo civilization.
Thus, genetic connexions between the present and the earlier forms of
trance-worship have been provided.
In order to reach full fruition our
investigation must add to the use of the genetic that of the comparative method
of research. Outside of religious mysticism there are numerous instances of
raptures possessing many of the traits commonly regarded as characteristic of
the divine Union. These non-religious instances of ecstasy must be compared
with those that have thus far occupied our attention. It is a misfortune (and
the main cause of their little success) that the students of mysticism have
usually kept their survey within the boundaries of religious and even of
Christian mysticism. To attempt a solution of the problems of mystical ecstasy
on that basis is just as hopeless as it would be to undertake the study of
English philology while disregarding the related languages. We shall,
therefore, seek whatever light may come from a survey of several classes of
experiences which common opinion relates to mysticism.
* * *
Among the dread diseases that afflict
humanity there is one that interests us quite particularly; that disease is
epilepsy. Its main manifestation is often preceded by curious signs, varying
greatly from person to person, but fairly constant in the same person. In some
instances, the " aura,” as these premonitory symptoms are called, is in
the nature of an ecstasy. In Modern Medicine, Dr Spratling reports the
case of a priest under his care whose epileptic attacks
were
preceded by a rapturous moment. Walking along the streets, for instance, he
would suddenly feel, as it were, “ transported to heaven.” This state of
marvellous enjoyment would soon pass, and, a little later on, he would find
himself seated on the curb of the sidewalk aware that he had suffered an
epileptic attack1. The same author mentions elsewhere two
other epileptic patients, “ teachers of noted ability,” who speak of their
auras as “ the most overwhelming ecstatic state it is possible for the human to
conceive of2.”
Similarly, the Russian novelist,
Dostoievsky, himself an epileptic, describes in his novel The Idiot an
ecstatic aura: ‘‘I remember among other things a phenomenon which used
toprecede his epileptic attacks when they came in the waking state. In the
midst of the dejection, the mental marasmus, the anxiety which he experienced,
there were moments in which all of a sudden the brain became inflamed and all
his vital forces suddenly rose to a prodigious degree of intensity. The
sensation of life, of conscious existence, was multiplied tenfold in these
swiftly passing moments. A strange light illumined his heart and mind. All
agitation was calmed, all doubt and perplexity resolved themselves into a
superior harmony ; but these radiant moments were only a prelude to the last
instant— that immediately preceding the attack. That instant, in truth, was ineffable3.”
The following information regarding
the several forms which the aura may take bears directly upon our problems. “
The most common psychic aura is a sudden acceleration of the imagination, a
quick overflowing of the process of thought in which the train of imagery is
urged ahead with trembling, excited haste until the thread is snapped and
unconsciousness occurs.” Sudden temporary blindness, may constitute its most
substantial part. “ Auditory aura usually partakes of the character of roaring
and voices, the sound of waves, etc. Such auras occur in from two to three per
cent, of all cases4.” Hallucinations of taste and smell also occur.
The re-appearance of normal consciousness is frequently marked by temporary
mental confusion, during which phase automatisms may take place.
The preceding instances of epileptic
aurae show the following features. (1) There is a total absence of causal,
conscious factors. (2) They bear a specific relation to a physiological
disorder. The
1
Wm. P. Spratling, in article " Epilepsy,” in Osler’s Modern
Medicine, vol. 7.
2
Epilepsy and its Treatment, p. 466.
3
The Idiot, vol. 1,
p. 296. Quoted from Spratling. There is a similar description in The
Possessed (Besi), tr. Garnett, New York, Macmillan, p. 554-
4
Three Lectures on Epilepsy, by W. A. Turner, Edinburgh, 1910, p. 6.
ecstasy is, therefore, in these cases,
assigned to a purely physiological cause. (3) The aura comes suddenly and
unexpectedly. The subject’s role is entirely passive ; it is as if an external
power had taken possession of him. (4) The ecstasy may bring with it a sense of
initiation, illumination, or revelation. (5) The experience is so wonderful
that the most extravagant descriptive terms and comparisons seem to fall short
of the reality; it is an ineffa ble experience.
These traits might naturally enough
suggest superhuman causation, yet no metaphysical significance is ascribed to
them. The priest did not think himself actually transported to heaven ; neither
did he believe that he had communed with God. Both the priest and Dostoievsky
accept the scientific view : these raptures are the expression of a particular
disease, and so, they say, “ it is not a higher life, but on the contrary, one
of lower order1.”
In the works of Pierre Janet may be
found instances in several respects similar to the preceding, although
apparently not connected with epilepsy. In them, some conscious activity,
sometimes regarded by the experiencer as its sufficient cause, precedes the
ecstasy. But the conscious activity plays rather the role of an occasion ; it
is like a spark that explodes a train of powder.
Fy, while walking in the country, is intoxicated by the open air, “
everything seems delightful ”; she is going “ to burst from happiness.” “ I
have,” she declares, “ never before experienced that; the day passes like a
dream (five times more swiftly than in Paris); I feel a better person, and it
seems to me that there are no bad people, every face is sympathetic and it
seems to me that I live in the Golden Age2.”
Gs, contemplating Paris from the top of the Trocadero, is roused to
intense admiration and for a moment he forgets his suffering. “ It seems to
me,” says he, “ that it is too beautiful, too grand, that I am lifted up above
myself. At the time, it gives me an enormous pleasure ; but it exhausts me ; my
legs shake, and it seems to me that, unable to stand that happiness, I am going
to swoon3.”
But, however
vivifying and inspiring a beautiful day in the country or Paris from the
Trocadero may be, these sights do not usually liberate storms of feeling such
as are described by these two persons. The country and Paris acted upon them
like a last drop that starts an overflow. Quite similar is the following
instance taken from my own collection of documents. It belongs to a perfectly
normal person. \
1
The Idiot.
2
P. Janet, Les Obsessions et la PsychasthAnie, Paris, 1903,
vol. 1, pp. 380-1.
3
Loo. tit., 380.
“ Once when walking in the wild woods
and in the country, in the morning under the blue sky, the sun before me, the
breeze blowing from the sea, the birds and flowers around me, an exhilaration
came to me that was heavenly—a raising of the spirit within me through perfect
joy. Only once in my life have I had such an experience of heaven1.”
The case of Nadia is not essentially
different. For, although two powerful emotional stimuli, love and music,
provide rational causes, common sense cannot regard them as causes commensurate
with the intensity of the storm they let loose. The love itself has hardly any
rational basis ; Nadia has never spoken to the object of her passion and has
seen him but a few times. She wrote to Pierre Janet, her physician, “ The
concerts given by X have been for me a revelation ; they have awakened such an
enthusiasm in me that I have never recovered from it. I cannot explain its
effect. When I left the hall after the first concert, my legs and whole body
shook so that I could not walk, and I spent the night in tears. . . . But it
was not painful, far otherwise ; it was as if I was coming out of a dream which
filled my past life. I understood things more as they really are. I was in a
veritable heaven of happiness. My only hope during many years has been to hear
him again and to experience the same feelings. I believe that, as people said,
I had a passion for him, but it was not an ordinary passion ; of that I am
sure. He seemed to possess a supernatural influence over me2.”
Nadia reminds one of love at first
sight. Is not the coup de foudre de l’amour, as the French say, a
phenomenon in several respects similar to the one we are discussing ? The
passive role of the subject, the suddenness of the emotional onslaught, the
ineffable happiness, the sense of discovery, establish a more than superficial
resemblance. Unfortunately, there is no time to insist upon this parallel. Here
is a final instance :
Jean occasionally experiences what he
calls “ sensations sublimes et solennelles.” This happens, for instance,
when he thinks of himself as a representative in the Chamber of Deputies,
where, before well filled galleries, he pronounces a great political speech. A
slight shudder runs through his body—not an unpleasant shudder—his, heart is
calm and beats slowly . '. . ; instead of his habitual
1
No. 40. "Sometimes, when I am away on the hills or in the
woods alone, God seems very near. . . . It is then that my soul goes out to Him
most fully, and that I am nearest to freedom from the limitations of time and
space and matter, nearest to gaining a true sense of relative values. I do not
then arrive at conclusions through any process of reasoning—I simply know
for the time.” From one of Pratt’s correspondents, as quoted by him in The
Religious Consciousness, p.358.
2
P. Janet, loc. cit., p. 387.
humble tread, with head down, he
straightens up and strides along with an important air. His intelligence is
exalted and keen, and he thirsts for knowledge ; above all, he enjoys a sense
of happiness never otherwise felt. “ These are,” he says, “ divine impressions
that prove to me the existence of a soul in the body1.”
The appellation “ divine ” applied by
Jean to his emotion, and the illogical sequence of ideas by which he comes to a
belief in the existence of a soul in the body, are well worth noticing. The
same sort of reasoning is common enough among persons cherishing high
intellectual pretensions: Jean, like Mlle Ve and the theologians of “ inner
experience,” passes from a sense of exaltation and vivification to the idea of
God as its cause.
Few, if any, persons will fail to recognize
in their own history moments of exaltation comparable to the above, both in
their quality and in their occasion. We are in the habit of regarding these
moments as determined by some mental content but the noteworthy thing is that
many of them are, in principle, no more rationally caused than Jean’s ecstasy,
or the raptures of No. 40. Did Jean actually pronounce mentally a noble
discourse ? Did he develop with powerful logic a succession of great thoughts
supported by vast erudition ? Certainly not. He did not actually say anything,
or what he said mentally was mere shadowy fragments of commonplace, stumpspeech
oratory. But he pictured himself speaking in the impressive setting of the
Chamber of Deputies; he heard the applause of the galleries ; shivers coursed
down his spine ; he straightened up, and thought himself convincing and witty !
Illusions of this sort are as common as they are psychologically interesting.
To them hasheesh, mescal, alcohol and other narcotic drugs owe much of their
charm ; and to them also is due in part the belief in the divine nature of the
condition produced by these drugs.
All these non-religious raptures, both
the epileptic and the others, happen suddenly and unexpectedly. The subjects
feel as if in the hands of external agents. They are carried away by a wave of
sensations and emotions, indescribably delightful. Moreover, they are under the
impression that they have entered a new world, and so they speak of
illumination, of revelation. We recall that these traits —suddenness,
unexpectedness, passivity, ineffability and illumination or revelation—are
the very traits which, together with beneficial moral consequences, are
regarded by the Christian mystics as characteristic of true religious ecstasy.
The trait most insisted upon—a trait
without which, according to the Roman Catholic Church, no ecstasy is a true
religious ecstasy 1 Loc. cit., p. 381.
—is the revelatory, or, as the
philosophers say, the noetic quality. A careful examination reveals the
presence of that trait in every one of the preceding instances. Nadia alone, it
is true, uses the word “ revelation,” but all these persons convey in
unmistakable terms the unique, wonderful quality of their experiences. Both
Nadia and Jean speak of a new understanding of things, and Dostoievsky,
struggling to describe the indescribable, notes two aspects of revelation upon
which the Christian mystics usually lay stress, its clearness and its
certitude.
It might be said, by way of objection,
that what we refer to in these instances as “ revelation,” is too lacking in
conceptual clearness to deserve that name. But is it not well known that lack
of conceptual definiteness has never been regarded by the mystics or their
apologists as a sufficient reason for disbelieving in the revelatory quality of
the mystical experience ? On the contrary, they have one and all insisted upon
its inexpressibility.
* * *
We pass now to an instance of ecstasy
regarded as religious both by the experiencer and by the World in general.
M.E. is a man of superior education
and of great moral earnestness. Throughout his life he has wrestled with
philosophico- religious problems. He is wont to see in life, or at least in its
more dramatic events, the hand of Providence. It will be observed that the
ecstasy fell upon him with startling unexpectedness. So far as he knew, nothing
whatsoever, whether in his physical or psychical condition, could have
foreshadowed its appearance. In this respect, this ecstasy does not
differentiate itself from the rapturous epileptic aura. We shall have to ask
ourselves whether it differentiates itself from it in any way except in the
interpretation placed upon it by the subject and in the consequences of that
interpretation.
“ As to ecstasies, I have experienced
one, among others, which I remember perfectly. I will try to tell you when and
how it happened and what it was like. I was thirty-six years old. I was
climbing with some young fellows from Forclaz to the Croix de Bovine in order
to reach Champex. We were following a road bordered by blooming oleanders and
looking down over a stretch of country dotted here and there with clumps of.
firs. The wind scattered the clouds above and below us, sending them down or
driving them up in whirling eddies. Now and then, one escaped and floated over
the valley of the Rhone. I was in perfect health ; we were on our sixth day of
tramping, and in good training. We had come the day before from Sixt to Trent
by Buet. I felt neither fatigue, hunger, nor thirst, and my state of mind was
equally healthy. I had had at
Forclaz good news from home ; I was
subject to no anxiety, either near or remote, for we had a good guide, and
there was not a shadow of uncertainty about the road we should follow. I can
best describe the condition in which I was by calling it a state of
equilibrium. When, all at once, I experienced a feeling of being raised above
myself, I felt the presence of God—I tell of the thing just as I was conscious
of it—as if His goodness and power were penetrating me altogether. The throb of
emotion was so violent that I could barely tell the boys to pass on and not
wait for me. I then sat down on a stone, unable to stand any longer, and my
eyes overflowed with tears. I thanked God that in the course of my life He had
taught me to know Him, that He sustained my life and took pity both on the
insignificant creature and on the sinner that I was. I begged Him ardently that
my life might be consecrated to the doing of His will. I felt His reply, which
was that I should do His will from day to day, in humility and poverty, leaving
Him, the Almighty God, to be judge of whether I should some time be called to
bear witness more conspicuously. Then, slowly, the ecstasy left my heart; that
is, I felt that God had withdrawn the communion which He had granted, and I was
able to walk on, but very slowly, so strongly was I still possessed by the
emotion. Besides, I had wept uninterruptedly for several minutes, my eyes were
swollen, and I did not wish my companions to see me. The state of ecstasy may
have lasted four or five minutes, although it seemed at the time to last much
longer. My comrades waited for me ten minutes at the cross of Bovine, but I
took about twenty-five or thirty minutes to join them ; for, as well as I can
remember, they said that I had kept them back for about half an hour. The
impression had been so profound that in climbing slowly the slope, I asked
myself if it were possible that Moses on Sinai could have had a more intimate
communication with God. But the more I seek words to express this intimate
intercourse, the more I feel the impossibility of describing the thing by any
of our usual images. At bottom the expression most apt to render what I felt is
this: God was present, though invisible ; He fell under no one of my senses,
yet my consciousness perceived Him
.”
No wonder that this exquisite
experience aroused in M.E. thankfulness towards the Giver of it, and a wish to
know what he could do in order to show himself deserving of the blessing. He “
felt ” that he “ should do His (God’s) Will from day to day.” This thought, so
obvious that it might have appeared in any mind with
similar religious preconceptions, is
taken as God’s reply. This is the only revelation conveyed in a conceptual
form. No one would insist upon its evidential value. But, in the opinion of
M.E., the power, the goodness, and probably other qualities of God, and
ineffable aspects of the meaning of life, were also revealed; he “ felt ” them.
During a mountain journey, and
apparently in the absence of any natural cause, whether physical or psychical,
M.E., is suddenly thrown into a rapture, the basal features of which are quite
similar to those of the ecstasy of the epileptic priest. Was it, perhaps, an
epileptic attack ? We do not know, and it matters little to us whether it was
or not. What matters in this connexion is the observation that the seizure had
no conscious cause. It was not brought about by a train of thought and emotion
; it appears to have been caused altogether by organic processes.
In his second letter to the
Corinthians, St Paul has recorded a wonderful experience. When he comes to the
subject of “ vision and revelations of the Lord,” the great Apostle relates how
fourteen years before—whether in the body or out of the body, he does not
know—he was “ caught up to the third heaven,” and “ heard unspeakable words
which it is not possible for man to utter1.” This experience
possesses the essential traits of the preceding ecstasies suddenness,
passivity, illumination, ineffability. Did St Paul, as some affirm, suffer from
epileptic attacks ? Here again the answer matters little. That which interests
us is that, as in the case of M.E. and of the epileptic auras, there were no
conscious antecedents which might be regarded as the cause of the event.
How is a person experiencing an
adventure of this kind going to account for it ? That will depend upon his
beliefs, his knowledge of physiology and of psychology, and upon attendant
circumstances. , If he knows that the experience is a prodromal stage of
epilepsy, he ' 11 fy r- will not be tempted to see in it the
work of a divine Being. The great Apostle, just as M.E., regarded his rapture
as a divine intervention. Ignorant as he was of modern science, a sharer in
the beliefs current about him in divine and diabolical possession, and a
passionate disciple of the Lord Jesus Christ, risen from the dead and seen on
the way to Damascus, how could St Paul have interpreted the storm of feelings
and emotions that suddenly assailed him, otherwise than as he did3 ?
1
1. Chap. XII, 1-4.
2
One may quite legitimately ask whether the interpretation of his
rapture given by M.E., would not have undergone the same change as the initial
interpretation given by Mlle Ve, if his opportunity for observation had been equal
to hers.
The description of a curious trance
with which John A. Symonds, the poet and essayist, was afflicted may be
introduced here. It will show us how an experience similar to the foregoing may
be differently interpreted by a person highly cultivated and free from the
beliefs traditional in mystical circles.
“ Suddenly,” writes Symonds, “ at
church, or in company, or when I was reading, and always, I think, when my
muscles were at rest, I felt the approach of the mood. Irresistibly it took
possession of my mind and will, lasted what seemed an eternity, and disappeared
in a series of rapid sensations which resembled the awakening from anaesthetic
influence. One reason why I disliked this kind of trance was that I could not
describe it to myself. I cannot even now find words to render it intelligible.
It consisted in a gradual but swiftly progressive obliteration of space, time,
sensation, and the multitudinous factors of experience which seem to qualify
what we are pleased to call our Self. In proportion as these conditions of
ordinary consciousness were subtracted, the sense of an underlying or essential
consciousness acquired intensity. At last nothing remained but a pure,
absolute, abstract Self. The universe became without form and void of content.
But Self persisted, formidable in its vivid keenness, feeling the most poignant
doubt about reality, ready, as it seems to find existence break as breaks a
bubble round about it. And what then ? The apprehension of a coming
dissolution, the grim conviction that this state was the last state of the
conscious Self, the sense that I had followed the last thread of being to the
verge of the abyss, and had arrived at the demonstration of eternal Maya or
illusion, stirred or seemed to stir me up again. The return to ordinary
conditions of sentient existence began by my first recovering the power of
touch, and then the gradual though rapid influx of familiar impressions and
diurnal interests. At last I felt myself once more a human being ; and though
the riddle of what is meant by life remained unsolved, I was thankful for this
return from the abyss—this deliverance from so awful an initiation into the
mysteries of scepticism1.”
1 J. A. Symonds, A Biography, London, 1895, pp. 29-31,
abridged, quoted by Wm. James in the Varieties of Religious Experience,
p. 385.
It is not unusual for fear to be felt
when trance approaches unconsciousness. A trance, similar to that of Symonds,
occuring in four persons closely related by blood is reported by Sir
Crichton-Browne in his Cavendish Lecture on “ Dreamy Mental States.”
" The youth who gave the fullest account said that suddenly he lost his
hold of the universe and ceased to know who he was. Everything seemed changed
in a twinkling, and he lost his relations to time and space. He felt intense
terror while the attack lasted, lest he should never become himself again ....
He was never unconscious during attacks that lasted ten or twelve seconds at
the most .... At one time he could bring them (these feelings) on by gazing
intently at his own face in a looking
The child who playfully throws himself
from a height into the extended arms of his father suffers a shudder of
anxiety, followed by a delightful sense of utter safety when in the embrace of
the fond father. So does at times the mystic when, as he thinks, he yields up
his personality to the divine Father. St Theresa and others report an instant
of terror and a tendency to stop themselves on the brink of the abyss, and then
the peace and the delight of divine embrace. Symonds, who in this connexion
thought neither of the Heavenly Father nor of Christ, felt only the dread of
approaching dissolution. He, no more than religiously inclined persons, could
resist the prompting to interpret the primary data of his consciousness. But as
his preconceptions were different, so also was his interpretation. It seemed to
him that, together with his self- consciousness, the Universe would come to an
end ; that both himself and the world were mere illusions.
There is no evidence that the primary
conscious facts in the experiences of M.E., of St Paul, and of Symonds differed
in any essential way from those of the unusual epileptic aurae reported above.
But they -were differently interpreted. M.E. and St Paul regarded their
ecstasy as the work of God. That interpretation transfigured the primary
experience and made of it a religious ecstasy.
It is advisable to insist upon the
effect of the interpretation put upon the primary data. However delightful in
itself, the epileptic
glass or ... . becoming ‘ abstract and
metaphysical,' as he termed it . As they wore off in adult life, the last
vestiges of them were experienced while he was drowsy and just falling to
sleep.”—Lancet, June 6th, 1895.
Mary Reynolds, who exhibited two
" personalities,” experienced during the transition from one to the other,
a fright which she describes by saying that it was " as if I were never to
return into this world.”—S. Weir Mitchell, Mary Reynolds, a case of Double
Consciousness, Trans, of the College of Physicians, Phila., April 4th,
1888, as quoted by P. Janet, Major Symptoms of Hysteria, p. 76.
In his experimental investigation of
the subconscious, Abramowski mentions, in connexion with the disappearance of
memories as one goes to sleep, " a condition of disquiet, something like
fear.” Two of his subjects report fear under similar conditions. “ I felt
fear,” says one of them, " I had a moment of anxiety so marked that I
wanted to interrupt the experiment and go out.”— E. Abramowski, Le
Subconscient Normal, Paris, 1914, pp. 201, 330.
In one of our own experiments with ether,
one of the subjects was aware of fear as consciousness was on the point of
vanishing. It was soon replaced by peace and happiness.
Mlle Ve speaks of a resistance to the
progress of trance as being customary with her and almost involuntary. In her
case the surrender comes with “ a voluptuous and deep enjoyment.” She tells us
that she has often “ compared that struggle and that surrender to the
passionate struggle of a woman who loves but contends and resists before
surrendering.”—Th. Flournoy, Une Mystique Moderne, pp. 81, 83, 100.
ecstasy can have, for those who know
its relation to disease, only a depressing effect. What a sardonic mockery this
introduction of an epileptic attack by a moment of delirious happiness I But
if, like St Paul, M.E., and others, one refers the experience to a loving,
divine Agent, it is no longer merely delightful, it becomes “ divine ’’ : the
rapture is enriched by all the values and the glory which, in the mind of the
subject, belong to God. Something similar happens to the possessor of a
beautiful flower when he learns that it comes from the beloved. It is no longer
simply an admirable flower, it is a talisman that miraculously kindles the
inner life of the lover.
If sudden inexpressible delights are
taken as a sign of God’s presence, one should not be surprised if feelings of
an opposite quality are construed as a sign of his absence. We have in mind
neither the periods of “ dryness ” of the Christian mystics, nor Bunyan’s
sense of unpardonable guilt, but a particularly instructive instance of a
person of high culture and intellectual power interpreting distress arising
from the digestive functions as the absence of God. The following entry is
found, under date March the 31st, 1873, in the Diary of no less a man
than the Genevese philosopher Amiel1.
“For an hour past I have been the prey
of a vague anxiety; I recognize my old enemy. . . . It is a sense of void and
anguish, a sense of something lacking. What ? Love, peace—God perhaps. The
feeling is one of pure want unmixed with hope, and there is anguish in it
because I can clearly distinguish neither the evil nor the remedy. Of all hours
of the day, in fine weather, the afternoon about three o’clock, is the time which
to me is most difficult to bear, I never feel more strongly than I do then ‘
le vide effrayant de la vie
Now, physiologists say that the middle
hours of the afternoon are hours of low vitality. And, as we might expect,
dyspeptic persons—Amiel was one of them—suffer most during that period of the
day.
That a man of the mental acuity of
Amiel should have been ready to see in these feelings of want and anxiety the
absence of God, may induce the reader to tolerate the surmise that Tennyson (a
mystic), after eating a certain mutton chop, might have rhapsodized about a
divine visitation had he not known that he had eaten the chop. Here is the
incident as related by the poet himself. After having been for ten weeks the
guest of a vegetarian friend, Tennyson complained that his blood had lost its
warmth. Subsequently, probably as soon as he was delivered from his friend, he
ate a mutton chop. He said of that feast, that it was “ one of the most
wonderful ” experiences he had ever had. “ I shall never forget the sensation.
1 Amiel’s Journal
was put into English by Mrs. Humphrey Ward. '
I never felt such joy in my blood1.”
Our surmise is that, had the poet been ignorant of its cause, he would have
classed this surpassingly delightful and vitalizing experience with his
religious, mystical illuminations. The high probability of this supposition
will appear more fully presently, when we look into his mystical experiences.
* * *
Were one to judge by the instances I
have given, one might think that the prodromal stage of epilepsy is always an
ecstasy; and yet that is but seldom the case. The auras may consist of the most
varied experiences. There are instances when the aura is terrifying; the face
of the subject expresses the most horrible fear. I chose only ecstatic cases because
they are the only ones that interest us. It should be known, further, that a
sense of joy and of abundant life is present in morbid conditions other than
epilepsy2. In a phase of general progressive paralysis, the poor
patient, reduced to a bestial condition, beams his enjoyment as he endeavours
to answer one's questions about his health.
The same remark may be made with
reference to the other psychical storms we have described. All those given here
are rapturous in quality; yet there exist varieties with very different
affective tones. There are, for instance, pathological fits of anxiety, of
fear, of anger. These appear either in the complete absence of psychical cause,
or at the slightest provocation. Everyone knows persons constitutionally disposed
to wrathfulness and also their opposites, the ever placid and sweet.
Pathological anxiety is not uncommon ; here is an instance of it. A woman of
forty-six years suffered at times from " a feeling of extreme nervousness
and agitation, great restless anxiety, with a sense of uncontrollable dread of
some unknown impending terror. Physically, the attack was characterized by
violent trembling of the whole body, hurried breathing, irregular heart’s
action, and profuse cold sweating3.” In his Study of Anger, Stanley
Hall reports several instances of abnormal rage, in particular the case of a
girl who had, about once a month, violent fits of rage4.
* * *
The facts related in the present
chapter warrant the following conclusions :—
(1)
Whether they belong to the religious life or not, these raptures,
or psychical storms, break out suddenly and overcome the subject. He feels as
if in the hands of an external power, and he interprets what happens to him, in
accordance with the custom of the time and his own private knowledge. These
wonderful experiences include indescribable impressions, designated by the term
illumination or revelation. Their traits—suddenness, unexpectedness,
passivity, illumination, ineffability—therefore, are not characteristic of
religious life alone.
(2)
In many cases these psychical storms have no conscious cause.
Neither perception, nor idea, nor emotion brings them about. They break out
suddenly, as of themselves. In other instances, a beautiful landscape, the idea
of a speech, music, etc., are the occasions of the discharge. I say the
occasions, because there is evidently no exact correspondence between the
conscious antecedents of the storm and the intensity and the quality of the
rapture. We must, therefore, conclude that these phenomena have unconscious
causes which may be sufficient in themselves or which may need supplementing.
The facts seem to warrant the further conclusion that the unconscious causes
are organic1.
Not only rapture, but every phenomena
of an emotional nature may be included in this last generalization. To say that
our emotions are not entirely determined, either in their quality or in their
intensity, by the facts which are commonly said to be their causes, is to utter
a truism. The same so-called causes produce in the same person, in different
circumstances, enormously different effects. I need only recall the domestic
scenes with which too many families are acquainted. The assigned causes of
these scenes, as a matter of fact, usually are merely insignificant occasions
for the outbreak. Paris seen from the Trocadero, a sunny, peaceful landscape, a
concert, an imaginary discourse, played, in the instances reviewed above, the
role of the spark that ignites the powder. Pent-up nervous energy seemed merely
to be waiting for a last addition, in itself unimportant, before setting into
motion a complex series of physiological processes : trembling, lowering of the
temperature, weeping, etc., and states of consciousness remarkable by their
1
Referring to the mystical trances of Mlle Ve, soon to be
considered, Flournoy writes, “ On the whole, the divine experience of Mlle Ve
may be compared to a periodic nervous storm, which each time gathers strength
slowly, then breaks out suddenly, and disappears leaving behind more or less
intense moral effects.”—Archives de Psychol, de la Suisse Romande, vol.
XV, 1915, p. 176.
intensity and quality. In the
epileptic aura not even a spark from the outside is necessary : the discharge
is altogether spontaneous.
(3) A third and last conclusion from
our analyses refers to the extensive and profound transformation suffered by
the primary phenomenon when it is interpreted and elaborated under the
influence of desires and beliefs. In the instance of M.E., consciousness had
no share in the production of the primary, the immediate, experience ;
Christian beliefs intervened only after its appearance. But they transfigured
it by putting into it a divine meaning. In this ethically-minded person, the
rapture became a powerful source of moral energy.
Some reference to the functioning of
the nervous system in epilepsy may give some definiteness to our conception of
the mechanism underlying psychic storms, of which epilepsy and ecstatic
raptures are varieties.
In so far as we are concerned in the
phenomenon, the essential fact in epilepsy is a sudden discharge of nervous
energy, with a great variety in the routes followed by the liberated energy.
The cause (or causes) of the disease does not interest us beyond the knowledge
that it is purely organic. The almost endlessly varied forms assumed by psychic
storms are due to differences in the distribution of the nervous energy. In Grand,
Mal, it is intense and general. The marked motor disturbances and the loss
of consciousness indicate that the discharge has invaded the motor area as well
as other portions of the brain. In “ psychic epilepsy,” on the contrary, only
those parts of the nervous system correlated with sensory and ideational
functions are affected ; consequently the symptoms are chiefly sensory. The
type of hallucination will be visual, or auditory, or otherwise, according to
whether the discharge affects the visual, the auditory, or other sensory
regions of the brain. When tender or voluptuous emotions are produced, we must
conclude that the nervous discharge has reached those parts of the nervous
system, and perhaps those organs that are connected with these emotions. We may
think of the degree of mental confusion and of unconsciousness as depending
mainly upon the extension and the intensity of the discharge into the so-called
association areas.
* * *
II.
Ecstasies Connected with the Solution of Moral Conflicts.
In the preceding instances, ecstasy,
whether religious or not, appeared or seemed to appear quite independently of
any previous mental activity of the subject. Not only was it sudden and
unexpected, but there was no obvious evidence that any antecedent desire or
train of thought had prepared it. We came to the conclusion that organic causes
could of themselves determine mystical raptures.
It would, however, be a gross error to
think that the subject's desire and his mental activity in general never count
for anything in the production of these remarkable phenomena. The previously
considered ecstasies of the Christian mystics, although in a sense unexpected,
were in most cases not only desired but prepared-for, often, by a systematic
procedure.
The first two of the following instances
(Mrs Pa. and Mme D.) do not involve a complete ecstatic trance. They are
nevertheless placed here because they yield an impression of illumination or
revelation, which is, as we have learned, a characteristic trait of mystical
ecstasy.
Mrs P.—“ I had gone on a visit to my brother after my husband’s death,
because I could not settle down or care to take up my life again on account of
its utter absence of interest and the futility of all things. One morning I
woke and lay watching the trees waving about outside my window, remembering a
book by Henry Drummond I had read years before, but of which the only thing I
seemed to remember was the part that speaks of God’s life being in the trees.
Suddenly (and I have always wondered why it had not occurred to me before) the
thought came : but, then, the same life must be in the animals and also in man
; and, since man is recognized as being eternal, why, then, he must be part of
God Himself. Then the realization came that there is only one Life anywhere, that
there is only one God everywhere, in whom all, as a matter of fact, ‘
live and move and have their being,’ out of whom even what we call evil must in
some wonderful way have come as well as what we call good. Then, the feeling of
exultation that nothing could hurt me, ever any more, not even death itself,
for if in me is God’s life, death has no power over it. . . . If I am of God
and He in me, even so must He be in the body of every mortal man without
distinction. So we are all ' sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty ’ and all
brothers and sisters in actual truth. The world suddenly seemed like one big
family, taking away somewhat one’s loneliness.
“ Now, all this may not seem much to
you, but to me this realization was such a wonderful thing that for days I
went in awe of the knowledge, wondering if the clergy whom I met knew about
these things and, if so, why they did not tell the ■people1.”
The appearance in Mrs Pa’s mind of the
ideas expressed in this letter need not surprise us ; but we may well wonder at
their effect. Hundreds of times those or similar ideas have passed through the
minds of other persons to be dismissed speedily as inadequate or to remain
without making any deep impression. The magnitude of the effect they produced
in this instance must have been due to the psycho-physiological condition of
Mrs Pa. She had moved from the United States, where she had lived with her
husband, to new surroundings in Australia. Here she found kind people and new
interests. She was still young ; life, love,—the libido, the Freudians would
say,—could not be kept down endlessly by sorrow. One morning she awoke, rested
and peaceful. The trees were gently swaying in the sunlight. A vague thought
from Henry Drummond,
1 From a letter written to the author in 1914.
that persuasive propagandist of the
God of Love, flitted into her mind, and the world was transformed!
There are reasons in the circumstances
recited above for thinking that Mrs Pa. was on the verge of one of those
organically caused feeling-storms described in preceding pages and that the
recall of Drummond’s idea about God’s life being in the trees acted as the
additional charge needed to produce the spark.
But why did the elation continue far
beyond the ordinary duration of an organic brain-storm ? Let it be said first
that it would be a mistake to suppose that its intensity was sustained without
diminution beyond a brief space of time. Soon Mrs Pa. found a relatively stable
level, considerably above her preceding condition it is true, but still far below
that of the ecstatic crisis. The problem is therefore the persistency of this
diminished state of heightened optimism and efficiency. Its solution is to be
found, I think, in the following considerations :—(1) Time brought assuagement
to her grief. (2) The absence of concentration of her potential affection upon
one individual and the absence of sex gratification favoured the irradiation or
sublimation of an apparently strong love-disposition. (3) The idea of a
pantheistic God of love put into her head by Drummond, was just the kind of
idea which her affective and intellectual equipment prepared her to accept. In
a frigid and less intelligent person, the impression produced by that
conception would have been probably less intense and more evanescent.
Madame D.—For many years Madame D., a woman of average education, mother of
several children, had struggled with the problem of evil in the form which it
assumes for those who believe in a God both omnipotent and benevolent. When, to
her observations of the moral indifference of nature and the unspeakable
cruelty of men, were added terrible events in her own family, her religious
faith in the omnipotent Providence met shipwreck. She realized that an
omnipotent God who should consent to what happens in the world would be a
monster. But she had formed with the Christian God too many bonds, of too long
duration, to be able easily to give him up. For years she wrestled with the
dilemma : either a monsterGod or no God at all. Neither horn of that dilemma
was acceptable to her. Then, suddenly, came another solution. “ In a struggle
more violent and overwhelming than the others,” she saw that she must give up
the idea of a God-Providence. At the same time (I quote) “ there came into my
mind as clear as day the idea that the contradiction between an all-good,
all-powerful God and that which happens in the world is simply due to the fact
that God is absent from the world.” He is really the great Creator and the
loving Father of humanity ; it is He who has given us all the good things we
enjoy ; but He is not responsible for what now happens in the world, for He has
withdrawn from it. “God absent from the world. What an enlightening and helpful
explanation ! It was on a Thursday between four and five o’clock in the afternoon
(she names the street and the exact spot on the sidewalk) when I was coming
home from a visit to my friends X, that this light came to me suddenly out of
(my darkened sky. 0 God, how happy I was to find you in heaven after I had lost
you on earth ! I thank you, O God, You are not in the world, but you live. I
pray to you because you perhaps hear me, and because, when the ocean separates
a mother from her child, he can still think of her with love and gratitude and
mentally confide to her his joy and griefs
.”
The pantheistic illumination that
restored Mrs Pa. to hope and happiness after the loss of her husband, offers
some instructive points of similarity to the theological illumination of Mme D.
Their problems, seen at the root, are the same even though they assume
different forms. Both seek the removal of inhibitions and contradictions and
thus, a release of pent-up energies. Mme I), is enmeshed in a dilemma involving
her peace of mind and her moral welfare. Mrs. Pa’s tragedy is the too common
one of the loss of a loved husband about whom the whole life of the wife is
centred. There was in both a long period of misery and a threat of moral
shipwreck. To both salvation came suddenly. Mme D. was saved as she became
convinced that the living God in whom she believed is absent from the world ;
Mrs Pa, as she realized God’s presence everywhere and in everything. Carlyle,
whose case follows in small print, found salvation in a still different idea.
It is evident that one must look elsewhere than in these conceptions themselves
for an explanation of what is effected in these persons.
The adolescent crisis of Carlylk, related in sledge-hammer words
in Sartor Resartus, bears some resemblance to the preceding instances
:—“ Full of such humour, and perhaps the miserablest man in the whole French
Capital or Suburbs, was I, one sultry Dog-day, after much perambulation,
toiling among the dirty little Rue Saint-Thomas de 1’Enfer, among civic rubbish
enough, in a close atmosphere, and over pavements hot as Nebuchadnezzar’s
furnace; when, all at once, there rose a Thought in me, and I asked myself : '
What art thou afraid of ? Wherefore, like a coward, dost thou forever pip and whimper,
and go cowering and trembling ? Despicable biped ! What is the sum-total of the
worst that lies before thee ? Death ? Well, Death ; and say the pangs of Tophet
too, and all that the Devil and Man may, will, and can do against thee ? Hast
thou not a heart; canst thou not suffer whatsoever it be ; and, as a Child of
Freedom, though outcast, trample Tophet itself under thy feet, while it
consumes thee ? Let it come, then ; I will meet and defy it ! ’ And as I
thought, there rushed like a stream of fire over my whole soul ; and I shook
base Fear away from me forever. I was strong, of unknown strength ; a spirit,
almost a god. Ever from that time the temper of my misery was changed : not
Fear or whining Sorrow was it, but Indignation and grim fire-eyed Defiance.
" Thus has the Everlasting No
pealed authoritatively through all the recesses of my Being, of my Me ; and
then was it that my whole Me stood up, in native God-created majesty, and with
emphasis recorded its Protest. Such a Protest, the most important transaction
in Life, may that same Indignation and Defiance, in a psychological point of
view, be fittedly called. The Everlasting No had said : ‘ Behold, thou art
fatherless, outcast, and the Universe is mine (The Devil’s) ; to which my whole
Me now made answer : ' I am not thine, but free, and for ever hate thee ! ’
It is from this hour that I incline to
date my Spiritual New-birth, or Baphometic Fire-baptism ; perhaps I directly
thereupon began to be a Man.” —Sartor Resartus, Book II, Chapter VII.
We add two interesting instances. The
first, drawn from a novel, may represent faithfully an actual experience of the
author. As to Rousseau’s ecstasy, it is said that he has greatly exaggerated
its remarkable features.
George Moore.—During the Boer War George Moore was conversing with friends
about the chances the Boers had of winning the war. The discussion ended with
the statement that even if they should win now, it would be the same in the end
; the war would merely be prolonged. This idea shocked George Moore, a
pro-Boer. At night his thoughts returned to the same topic. I quote : " I
was lifted suddenly out of my ordinary senses. The walls about me seemed to
recede, and myself to be transported ineffably above a dim plain rolling on and
on till it mingled with the sky. An encampment was there in an hallowed light,
and one face, stern and strong, yet gentle, was taken by me for the face of the
Eternal God upreared after combat with the Eternal Evil. What I saw was a
symbol of a guiding Providence in the World. ‘ There is one, there is one 1 ’ I
exclaimed, ‘ It is about me and in me.’ And all night long I heard as the deaf
hear, and answered as the dumb answer. A night of fierce exultations and
prolonged joys murmering through the darkness like a river. ‘ For how can it be
otherwise ? ’ I cried, starting up in bed. ' Yet I believed this many a year
that all was blind chance ! ’ And I fell back and lay like one consumed by a
secret fire. Life seemed to have no more for giving and I cried out: ' It is
terrible to feel things so violently,’ and on these words, or soon after, I
must have dropped away into sleep.”—Hail and Farewell—Salve, New York,
1912, p. 169.
We note in this instance that, after a
profoundly moving discussion, George Moore, while in bed, conscious neither of
the outer world nor of his own body, found himself occupied with the recent
discussion. There seems to be sufficient evidence to class this experience with
hypnagogic dreams. There came to the dreamer the sense of a great Presence who
typified for him the Eternal Good and the triumph of the just cause. This
presence was felt with absolute certitude and stirred in him indescribable
emotions, just as in Miss X, Mlle Ve, and a host of other mystics. His anxious
doubt dissolved ; the solution of the Boer problem came to him : the cause of
the oppressed race would ultimately triumph, for a just Providence rules over
the world.
Rousseau rose to fame as the author of a prize-essay upon a question
proposed by the Academy of Dijon. An interesting rapture is connected with that
question. It happened as he was going to see Diderot, then a prisoner at
Vincennes. " I had in my pocket,” writes Rousseau, “ a copy of the Mercure
de France which I was looking over as I was walking. I noticed the question
of the Academy of Dijon which was the occasion of my first writing. If ever a
thing resembled sudden inspiration, it was what happened in me at the reading
of that notice : suddenly my mind was dazzled by a thousand lights ; a crowd of
ideas presented themselves at once, with a power and in a disorder which
plunged me in an inexpressible confusion ; I felt a dizziness similar to
intoxication. Violent palpitations shook my breast . . . . I let myself drop
under a tree and spent there a half hour in such a frenzy of emotion that only
on rising did I notice that my coat was wet with the tears I had shed.”—From a
letter of J. J. Rousseau, written January 12th, 1762, to M. de Malesherbes. Oeuvres
Completes de J. J. Rousseau, Paris, 1886, vol. 10, p. 301. The incident
itself took place in 1749.
Extraordinary as was the event,
Rousseau did not regard it as due to a superhuman cause. He was not in
the habit of seeing God’s action in human affairs, and probably assumed his own
competency in the sphere to which these ideas belonged.
There is considerable analogy between
the situation of Rousseau as he foresees himself winning the Dijon prize, and
that of poor Jean imagining himself pronouncing a magnificent speech in the
Chamber of Deputies. Rousseau, however, unlike Jean, had pondered long over
social problems, and had discussed them ardently with his friends. We may
suppose that, as the question awakened a swarm of ideas and fired his ambition,
he saw himself acclaimed throughout Europe as the -winner of the competition.
In both cases ecstasy was conditioned, on the one hand, by the presence of
physiological factors favourable to the production of a violent nervous
discharge ; and, on the other, by ideas calculated to arouse powerful emotional
tendencies centering about the idea of the self. The store of nervous energy
was drained into the channels indicated by the rational mental activity.
In First and Last Things,
London, Constable, 1908, p. 60, H. G. Wells speaks of moments of communion with
himself and with something greater than himself as “ the supreme fact ” of his
religious life.—Quoted by Pratt, loc. cit., p. 343.
The instances of Mrs Pa. and of Mme D.
recall such famous records as that of the Great Enlightenment of the Buddha
Gautama under the Bow tree. Is that experience—supposing it to have taken
place—susceptible of the same explanation as the preceding ? And what shall
that explanation be ? We cannot agree with Mrs Pa. and Mme D. in regarding
their saving illuminations as the logical, rational consequence of the ideas
which unexpectedly appeared to them. That is not a sufficient explanation. We
are rather inclined to see in these cases something similar to that which
happened to M.E. and to the person viewing Paris from the Trocadero, namely,
the action of non-rational factors interpreted in a specific way.
The present instances are complicated
by the realization on the part of the subjects of a problem to be solved and by
their general effort to find a solution. We may perhaps suppose that
dissatisfaction and vague strivings result in, or contribute to, an
accumulation of energy which at the proper moment is set off by a minimal
stimulus (the ideas mentioned) which produces a condition better adapted to the
situation of the individual. The quality of the changes which take place on the
occasion of the saving ideas would thus be in a degree dependent upon the
strivings—vague as they are—that have preceded the change.
The cases of Miss X. and of Mlle Ve
will provide further opportunities for considering the role of desire in the
production of moral transformations.
We might, of course, in order to cover
our ignorance, juggle with words brought into vogue by the Freudian psychology.
Those imbued with the theories of the Austrian physician will hold that in
these and in similar cases a mental activity had taken place of which the
subject was not aware and that the crises we have related represent the
irruption into consciousness of that subconscious mentation. It may be so. But,
for our part, if we do not doubt the possible continuation of nervous
activity when consciousness ceases, we have not been able to convince ourselves
of the existence of a consciousness of which the subject was not at the time
aware.
In any case we are limited to the
existing documents. These persons are available neither for psychoanalysis nor
for the application of the methods of research used by Morton Prince in his
attempt to prove the reality of coconsciousness1. Under these
circumstances, we have deliberately resisted the recent fashion to scatter
profusely through the discussion of mystical phenomena terms referring to the
mysterious activity of a coconsciousness or sub-consciousness. An appeal to a
subconsciousness, the detailed operations of which cannot be ascertained, would
be as futile and unscientific as an explanation of any phenomenon by reference
to “ God.” The foregoing remarks apply, of course, not merely to the
immediately preceding instances of illumination, but to almost all the facts
considered in this book.
* * *
Among the more striking raptures
coming together with, or following upon, the solution of practical moral
problems, are those connected with Christian conversion. These sudden
alterations of belief and behaviour are so fascinating to the psychologist
that, if space permitted, we would introduce here several instances. The
following one cannot be regarded as entirely typical of Christian conversion,
but it is well adapted to our purpose.
Miss X., professor of a branch of
natural science at an American College:—This is a pathetic chapter in the life of a lone woman. Her
experience reaches far beyond our present topic, and we shall, therefore, have
to pass over without comment several features of deep interest, in particular
the devastating workings of primary, instinctive forces of which social life,
as it existed for her, did not permit the natural expression, and also the
demonstration which her case provides of the possibility for some people—one
must insist upon the “ some ”—of using effectively the conception of a loving
God in the absence of a rational conviction of his existence, yes, in spite of
the recognition that all our knowledge opposes that belief.
1
Coconscious Images, Jr. of Abnormal Psychol. 1917.
An Experimental Study of the Mechanism
of Hallucinations, British Jr. of Psychol., Medical Section, vol. II, 1922, pp. 165-208.
Miss X. soon lost her early faith in
God. I quote1: “I came to believe that what men call God is the
impersonal first cause of the universe. This state of mind lasted for about
fifteen years, during which I went through various experiences of sickness and
loss of friends without feeling in the least the need of belief in a personal
God. It culminated in a physical breakdown and a moral crisis in which I first
lived a life of deception, and then by reason of some tendency still utterly
inexplicable to me, found myself obliged to fight and conquer the temptation.
It is impossible to state too strongly my feeling of being the creature of an
outside force both in the yielding and the conquering. It seems as if my own
consciousness were literally only a spectator, while some deeper race or
instinctive self held the stage.
“ Then one day I found myself holding
as the very centre of my life an ideal which suddenly appeared to be monstrous,
to be filled with tendencies to wrong action. I realized that I was in truth
little better than when I had yielded, since I lived in thought the same life
of deception and continued to set before myself an ideal unattainable by any
honourable means. I saw clearly enough that I should have to give up that ideal
or become openly bad, and while I shrank with horror from the sin that lay open
to me on one side, I shrank almost equally from the nothingness awaiting me if
I uprooted the ideal. What a shrivelled, repressed nonentity my personality
would become !
“ Two factors especially contributed
to my despair. The first was the feeling of my own insignificance or
uselessness in the world of people, and the second was the paralysis of much of
my emotional and intellectual self which followed upon the removal of my old
ideal. My thoughts and feelings were constantly turning towards and groping for
this loved and customary object. When they did close upon it, shame and remorse
followed; but when they found only nothingness, the sense of being baffled, of
stepping off into the darkness, was indescribably painful.
“ During this time, my attention was
called to the possibility of a new sort of belief in God. I felt that if I had
belief in a personal God, it would serve as the focus for my thoughts, and
would also remove the feeling of my worthlessness ; but it seemed to me utterly
futile to attempt to demonstrate the objective existence of such a God. No
philosophy had ever proved more than the existence of a first cause, and
science was emphasizing at every point that this cause was impersonal.”
1
Amy E. Tanner, An Illustration of the Psychology of Belief,
Psychol. Bull., vol. IV, 1907, pp. 33-6, abbreviated.
She reflects, however, that, “ if
living demands the assumption of a personal God, then it is reasonable to make
that assumption; but does it demand it ? Here I remained for some time, I
questioned whether I could not in time conquer this desire as I had others, but
I found myself standing on the brink of the abyss again and again, and I became
so harrassed and at last so afraid that I was forced to admit that I could see
no way of relief unless there were a Something to help me.
“ But then came the question of
whether I could use the concept of a personal God without belief in its
objective existence. Could I try it as a mere working hypothesis and expect to
get any valuable results ? If one can get strength and comfort from talking to
God as if He exists, it makes no practical difference even if the sense of His
love and help is an illusion created by one’s own mind. It seems almost
ludicrously self-evident that in either case one will not lose practically
though one may be wrong theoretically.
“ Therefore I deliberately set to work
to reacquire the sense of God’s presence which I had not had for nearly twenty
years. I reinforced my reason by reiterating my reasons for assuming such a
personality, and I prayed constantly after the fashion of the old sceptic : ‘ O
God, if there is a God, save my soul, if I have a soul.’
“ Then one night, after a week of this
sort of thing, the old sense of God’s presence came upon me with overpowering
fullness. I cannot express the sense of personal intimacy, understanding, and
sympathy that it gave to me. I felt the thing—whatever it was— so close to me,
so a part of me, that words and even thoughts were unnecessary, that my part
was only to sink back into His personality —if such it were—and drop all
worries and temptations, all the straining and striving that had been so prominent
in my life for years and years. Then, as I felt consolation and strength
pouring in upon me, there came a great upwelling of love and gratitude towards
their source, even though I was all the time conscious that that source might
not be either personal or objective. It felt personal, I said to myself, and no
harm would be done by acting as if it were so.
“ This experience lasted for two days
in nearly its original strength. Every time that attention relaxed from my
tasks, the presence was there, and it was the last at night and the first in
the morning in my consciousness. Gradually it became less vivid, but at times
it still recurs with its original force.
“ On the practical side its value up
to now—after a period of three months—has been permanent. I find my thoughts
falling back upon the idea of this presence as soon as I get into any sort of
trouble or perplexity, and the invariable effect is to calm me and to enable me
to take a wider outlook. I am so curiously conscious of it as a person that I
find myself checking certain thoughts and acts, just as I would check words if
some one else were here, and I break out into conversation with it in the same
incidental fashion as I do with a friend who happens to sit in the room where I
am working.
“ So far as the theoretical question
is concerned, I cannot say that I am any nearer a solution than before, nor do
I see any possibility of a solution. But I care less and less whether He exists
outside of my own consciousness or not.”
We have happened here upon a question
that lies outside our immediate concern. We will, nevertheless, permit
ourselves the remarks that it looms up omniously to-day in the Christian Church
and that no religion asking of its votaries a tour de force such as is
performed by Miss X., can possibly endure.
In this instance, as in ordinary
Christian mystical experiences, the revelation took the form of an impression
of God’s presence-—a presence as definite and convincing as sight or touch
could make it. By that presence, the problem of Miss X. was solved: she had
acquired the loving, guiding, all-sufficient friend she needed.
Let us observe, before passing on to
what is probably the most remarkable of our cases, that Miss X. felt the
impression of passivity, of being “ the creature of an outside force,” not only
in connexion with the conquering forces but also with the others, the “
yielding to temptation.” This important observation, verifiable by everyone in
his own life, should be remembered in the discussion of the psychology of
passivity.
Mlle Ve, a Modern Mystic.—There exists probably no single account of mystical experience
equal in scientific value to the diary published by Professor Flournoy of
Geneva, under the title Une Mystique Moderns. It owes its distinction to
a rare introspective gift, a scientific curiosity, and a relative independence
of traditional interpretation quite unusual among mystics. If it be added that
Professor Flournoy has supplied explanatory notes and a penetrating critical
discussion of many of the important questions raised by the document, the
importance of this contribution to the literature of mysticism will be
manifest.
1 Th. Flournoy, Une Mystique Moderne, Archives de Psychol, de la
Suisse Romande, Tome XV, 1915, pp. 1-224. In the quotations the italics are
Mlle Ve’s. See also H. Delacroix’s comments, loc. cit., pp. 338, if.
In the section on the Sex-impulse we
have already made use of certain aspects of Mlle Ve’s diary. They will be
merely referred to in the present connexion. The following pages dealing with
Mlle Ve have already been published, almost as they stand here, in the Jr.
of Abnormal Psychology, vol. XV, 1920, pp. 209-23.
We do not hesitate to set forth at
some length information contained in this diary, for it is upon a full
knowledge of the facts that a scientific understanding of mysticism, as of any
other topic, depends. It is placed here, last in order, mainly for the reason
that it brings up again, and in a particularly illuminating way, the central
problems of mysticism that are to be discussed in subsequent chapters : the
conviction of divine Presence and of illumination, and the nature of the
mystical trance itself.
Mlle Ve is an unmarried woman of good
education. In spite of a strong tendency to mental dissociation, her health is
robust. She was brought up in a somewhat severe Protestant atmosphere. For a
few years French governess in foreign countries, she became later head of a
religious educational institution in her native land.
The salient facts of Mlle Ve’s life,
in so far as they bear upon our investigation, are the following :
1.
A tenacious clinging to a high moral ideal and a persistent effort
to realize it.
2.
A dastardly assault of which she was the victim at the age of
seventeen and a half, when yet ignorant of the sex-relation.
3.
A conviction of unspeakable guilt, which for long years she
thought attached to herself because of her misfortune.
4.
The appearance, soon after her forcible initiation to sexknowledge,
of periods during which she was the shamed puppet of sex-desires. These
periods, more and more sharply separated from the rest of her life, approached
the appearance of a secondary personality. During these attacks, lasting
several days and at times over a week, she retained sufficient control of
herself to involve in them no one but herself, and to conceal them from
everyone, even though alterations of her physiognomy and of the tone of her
voice attracted the attention of her friends.
5.
An intense need, always seeking and never obtaining satisfaction,
for an intimate companionship of soul and body.
In 1910, at the age of forty-seven,
she appealed to Professor Flournoy in the hope that hypnotic suggestion might
become the means of her deliverance from sex-attacks that had recently become
surpassingly distressing, and might also help her to break a morally dangerous
friendship with a married man—a relation honourably begun, but in which her
heart and her senses had become so far engaged that she felt herself powerless
to resist longer. The writing-up of a detailed account of her experiences was
suggested to her by Flournoy, in part as a means of exorcism.
In the Fall of 1912, as she was
carrying out with success but not without struggle and a sense of desolation
her resolve not to see M.Y. any more, there came to her at night, before she
fell asleep, a friendly presence. She calls it the Friend1. His
approach was not made known to her through the senses. She felt him somewhere
in space and yet within herself. She talked to him more than he to her. The
Presence was soothing, purifying, and made no appeal whatsoever to sex ; for
the Friend, though “ virile,” was neither male nor female. Mlle Ve knows too
much and is too keen an observer to mistake this creation of her heart’s desire
for an objective reality. She says, ” I wish I was not so sure that he is merely
a split in my personality, so that I might take it more seriously; but I see
the ropes too clearly.”
In March, 1913, something new and of
much greater importance takes place for the first time. We shall call it the
great Experience, or simply, the Experience with a capital “ E.” During
the visits of the Friend she had remained self-conscious, but on this occasion
her body became partly anaesthetic, and, later, all consciousness disappeared.
On returning to herself, she was conscious of having been visited by a Presence
other than the Friend. This trance, identical in essential particulars with
that of the Christian mystics, was reproduced thirty-one times at irregular
intervals between March 1st, 1913, and July 30th, 1914.
The Experience was for a while placed
beyond possibility of critical examination by its amazing strangeness and
overpowering violence. But soon Mlle Ve realized that the power was impersonal,
whereas what she needed was the Christian God of Love. Later, a connexion
between the Experience and sex was forced upon her unwilling attention. From
that moment the charm was broken and a resistance, almost entirely involuntary,
assisted very probably by certain external events, brought the Experience to an
end.
Whoever considers carefully Mlle Ve’s
introspective account may convince himself that the Friend is a creation of
auto-suggestion. She herself is aware of this. She saw the “ ropes,” to repeat
her expression. We are all familiar with phenomena of the same type. Is it not
something similar that happens to children when they play with imaginary
persons ; to the adult when he lives xover again in imagination
happy moments spent with a loved friend; to the bereaved mother who, in the
obsession of sorrow, feels and hears the departed child ? Mlle Ve was
struggling against a passion that had marred a beautiful friendship. The dear
friend had to be given up. But she continued to yearn with the energy of a
famished soul for
1
In the elaboration of the Friend the thought of her father, for
whom she had a profound admiration and affection, played an interesting part.
The Friend appeared usually in the early stage of sleep, as she hovered between
self-consciousness and sleep.
the companionship of a worthy and
tender friend. If dreams may be regarded as creations of desire, the apparition
to Mlle Ve, between sleep and waking, of an ideal friend is sufficiently
accounted for.
Her .great Experience is, in some of
its aspects, the product of desires ; and, in others, of organic factors
operating independently of consciousness. The probable causes that brought the
Experience to an end (the discovery of the impersonal nature of the Power and
of its connexion with her sexual life had greatly disappointed her) indicate
clearly enough the presence of conscious factors. These observations coincided
with a decrease in the frequency of the Experience. When the Great War broke
out, it stopped altogether. The war began early in August, and her last
Experience took place on the 30th of the preceding July. Taking all the circumstances
into consideration, there seems to be here more than a coincidence. Shall we
not say that the tragic events that were riveting the anxious attention of the
whole world liberated her from constant thought of her little, suffering self
and canalized her energies into new paths ? Moralists and physicians tell of
profound transformations due to the pressure of dramatic events far inferior to
the Great War in their power to arrest the attention.
* * *
The three interrelated problems to
which the diary of Mlle Ve calls our attention are these:—
Why does she regard her Experience as
a manifestation of an impersonal, superhuman power ? Why does she insist upon
the divineness of that power ? Why does she claim absolute certitude regarding
her “ revelation ” ?
The mystics have always claimed a
noetic value for their experiences. “ It is,” they have said, “ a revelation ”
; and, they have added, “ its certainty is unassailable because it is not a
deduction nor a generalization from facts ; it is itself a datum, an immediate
experience.” In this they have had at all times the support of a number of
philosophers. Their case has recently been stated by William James in words
that have gained popular success: “ Mystical states usually are, and have a
right to be, absolutely authoritative over the individuals to whom they come. .
. . They break down the authority of the non-mystical or rationalistic
consciousness, based upon the understanding and the senses alone. They open out
the possibility of other orders of truth1.”
In order to ascertain how far the
experiences of Mlle Ve countenances this widespread opinion, we must transcribe
with some
1 The Varieties of Religious Experience, pp. 422-3, abbreviated.
fulness her account of the first one.
It began with the sense of the presence of the Friend, a presence of which she
had been deprived for some time. On the ist of March, 1913, she had just gone
to bed when, not feeling inclined to sleep, she wished the Friendly Presence
would manifest itself. “ I concentrated my thoughts and my will upon that
object, remaining motionless, the eyes closed, and trying with all my might to
avoid distraction. A fairly long time passed. I was beginning to find the
effort very exhausting and I was on the point of giving up, when I felt a
shiver and languor. I could no longer move, nor could I will with any
definiteness and energy. (She compares this paralysis and sense of well-being
to what she once experienced after taking morphine.) But my thoughts remained
active and even very lively in the circle in which I was interested— I felt the
Friend coming from the door to my bed. When I felt him there, and could commune
with him, it seemed to me that I was but a soul without body—I had the
impression that my spiritual being was free from the bonds that connected it
with matter and that it had entered another world. I did not hear a dialogue
nor a monologue, but I had the feeling of a kind of liberation because he
had come, and I was no longer aware of my limited self, circumscribed by matter.
I was passively conscious of another essential and immutable reality.
The words of St Paul came to my mind, ‘ I was caught up to the third heaven,
whether in the body or out of it, I cannot tell. God knows.’ I saw nothing,
heard nothing ; I was neither asleep nor in a swoon, and yet I was elsewhere,
I was changed. [According to her own account she lost, at this point,
entirely consciousness.] When I regained possession of my ordinary self, I felt
very weak, as when upset by a very strong emotion, and found it very difficult
to realize and to formulate what had happened. I got hold of it only by the
impression that remained, a sort of absolute assurance of the reality of the
Divine.
“ It seems to me that to-day [the day
after the experience] it is easy to endure life with fortitude because I have
realized as never before that this life is not all, that it is but a part of
the final reality.”
Three days later (March 5th), she
added the following information. “ How long did that experience last ? Perhaps
one minute, an hour, or longer. I came back to the world as one comes back from
a swoon, but without any unpleasant feelings, except a cold sensation which
came later on. As soon as my moral self began to reflect upon what had
happened, I had the conviction that there had been an irruption in me of the
divine. But, almost at the same time, I felt the impossibility of
formulating that which had been communicated to me. An influx of spiritual
life has certainly taken place, but not in the form of a new dogma or an
intellectual conviction. It was a living contact, producing life.
“ I need hardly say that, now,
biblical expressions crowd upon my mind in order to express or explain that
which I have experienced, because throughout my life every religious experience
has taken a biblical form ; but at the time—apart from the fact that I have
very soon given the name God to what had surrounded me—I did not have
the impression that it was one of the regular religious experiences. It was in
any case much deeper, greater, more overpowering, and less precise than
anything I have so far considered in my life as a religious experience.
Especially, I played a much less definite role, or rather I did not play any
role at all, since I had the feeling of having completely disappeared, of not
existing.”
The Friend never reappeared, but in
the course of the following seventeen months the great Experience reproduced
itself thirty-one times and Mlle Ve had an opportunity of verifying her initial
description and of indicating alterations or new features. This she did with a
power of introspection equal to that of St Theresa and a critical ability far
beyond hers.
With every ecstasy she struggled anew
for a definition of the " Divine.” The most significant of her utterances
on this point follow in chronological order :—
April 2nd. ” It is not easy to come
closer to that Divine Experience which I have had the privilege of undergoing
four or five times. In several respects it upsets my best established notions
of the meaning of the Divine. It is more vague and especially less personal
than that which I have so far regarded as the Divine. As I wrote yesterday, it
really soars beyond good and evil.”
April 16th. ” It is now only that I
realize how narrow, dogmatic, anthropomorphized my conception of the Divine
was. I had elaborated a God residing altogether in the moral sanction, and
revealed altogether in the Father set forth for us by the Christ of the
Gospels. I have at times felt all conception of God not modelled upon Christ or
leading back to Him as blasphemous.”
“ The Divine of which this Experience
gives me glimpses, surpasses in grandeur and in directness every thing I have
been able to imagine so far. It is a God who surrounds and envelops me, lifts
me up, illuminates and purifies me. But it is also a God that destroys me; to
enter into contact with me He requires the complete sacrifice of my
self-consciousness. This, the impossibility of the Divine and of the human self
to exist simultaneously, is something new to me. But, then, what is this Divine
that I do not apprehend as a person, which engulfs my personality and
afterwards communicates to it a living force ?
Whatever perplexing queries may arise,
Mlle Ve continues to feel for a while after each Experience “ the absolute
conviction ” of a Divine intervention. On the. occasion of the Ninth Ecstasy,
she remarks, “ I felt most of all my weakness, my powerlessness, and the
uselessness of any attempt at resistance ; and also that curious impression of
being surrounded by something at once violent and tender. I understood now that
the mystics of the middle ages could compare their ecstasies, altogether
spiritual, to the enjoyment and embraces of human love. Those are certainly the
symbols (could I bring myself to use them) which best fit, not the Experience
at the moment of contact, but the sensations that follow or precede it and that
ultimate impression of the aim reached, of utter fulfilment.”
On May 9th, on the occasion of the
Tenth Ecstasy, she asks : “ What is it that makes connexion with me in those
instants ‘ in my body or out of my body, I do not know. God knows.’ I have
never had the impression that it was a manifestation of Christ; it is too
impersonal, too elemental. And yet, afterwards, it has for my soul the value of
a meeting with God and I feel vivified.”
Visitation by an impersonal, elemental
power, however entrancing and beneficial it may be, is not enough for her. On
the 12th of May, after the Eleventh Ecstasy, she writes : “ And, nevertheless,
I need something else. I must find again the personal God ; the
God-Power-and-Light does not suffice me. I hardly dare write this—-there is
something almost sacrilegious in asking for more than I have received, but I
cannot do otherwise. Not even this contact can satisfy my soul, thirsting as it
does after the living and loving God.”
Certain important aspects of this
trance must be emphasized. On the night of the first great Experience she had
to make an especially vigorous and protracted effort of mental concentration
before the Friend appeared. The account transcribed above indicates that she
fell into a trance in which she was unable to move, although at first she
remained conscious. The sensations of touch and pressure ordinarily present
disappeared. This anaesthesia was in itself sufficient to induce the impression
of being altered and of being “ elsewhere,” liberated from the weight of the
body1. The Friend came, but there was no conversation with him.
Mental inertia was apparently already too deep. Suddenly, consciousness disappeared
totally. When she returned to herself, she realized
1 See the following
chapter for a discussion of this illusion.
the total eclipse ; she felt weak,
confused, not knowing at first what had happened to her.
It seems that no particular meaning attached
to the Experience while it lasted. A person not imbued with ideas about
mysticism present in Mlle Ve’s mind and not in dire need of divine assistance,
would probably have let the adventure pass as a surprising fit, an unusual
swoon; or night-mare. Not so Mlle Ve ; she could not afford to entertain angels
unawares. There were, as she saw it, reasons for believing that she had been
the subject of a divine visitation. In retrospect—on this fact of retrospection
she insists—she becomes conscious of “a sort of absolute assurance of the
reality of the Divine.” On the following days, as her “ moral self ” began to
reflect, she endeavoured to formulate her Experience. But, look back as hard
and as often as she might, all she could say was, “ An influx of spiritual life
has certainly taken place ”—something “ producing life.”
That she had been the object of the
manifestation of a great superhuman power was for her, in her situation and
limited as she was in knowledge of physiology and psychology, a natural, probably
an unavoidable conclusion. When, independently of your will, you find yourself
unexpectedly and in rapid succession the seat of unusual sensations, deprived
of the use of your limbs, stripped as it were of your body, and finally
deprived of the sense of existence itself, yet restored to normal consciousness
a moment later, what explanation seems more natural than that some Great Power,
external to yourself, has acted upon you ? That Mlle Ve could not regard it as
personal, is the very logical result of the absence in this seizure of the kind
of response on her part that is ordinarily elicited by the presence of a
person. This explanation is confirmed by her Twelfth Ecstasy. It had seemed to
her on that occasion that she had felt a Power ‘‘more personal, less
elemental.” Why that impression ? She provides the answer when she adds, “ I
had an impression of divine sympathy.” “ Nevertheless, there persisted
that sense of the infinite which surpasses our limits and our measures.” But
this impression was an exception, and her final conclusion is that a Force
which manifests itself in overpowering personality, instead of eliciting a
personal, emotional response, is not a personal Power, still less the God of
Love.
We now understand why she interprets
her Experience as the manifestation of an impersonal, superhuman power. But why
does she insist upon the divineness of that power ? Had she been more familiar
with certain diseases, epilepsy for instance, with its aura of strange feeling
and of disordered external perceptions, followed by a momentary loss of
consciousness, she might have found it very difficult to speak of a divine
power. But since, when reflecting upon her Experience, no comparable phenomenon
such as would offer itself to the mind of a psychiatrist occurs to her; and
since, instead, “ biblical expressions crowd ” upon her mind “ in order to
express or explain ” that which she had experienced, she has but one
alternative: the Power was either divine or satanic. Why did she choose the
former ? There was no reason for regarding herself as the object of the action
of satanic powers, unless it were the connexion of her trances with the
forbidden sex-passion. This connexion, however, was not immediately realized by
her. When it was realized, it suggested “ the most radical doubt as to the
nature of the Experience.” On the other hand, the peculiarly strong need of
help that she felt on that day, her habit of seeking assistance in prayer and
divine communion, and her belief that divine powers might, and, in certain
cases, do, manifest themselves in strange phenomena (she was familiar with the
ecstasies of the Christian mystics), inclined her to regard her Experience as
the expression of a good, a divine, power.
How strongly she was incited to make
the best possible use of whatever happened to her, appears in the determination
with which, even before she had become quite clear as to the nature of the
Experience, she resolved that it “ should have moral results.” This compulsion
to turn to moral account the puzzling doings of the Power was felt anew with
each returning manifestation of it. This resolve was greatly strengthened by
the conviction of the divineness of the Experience. Expectation, in things of
the mind, creates the expected; she is strengthened, comforted; an “ infusion
of life ” takes place just as if a divine power had interfered. And this
consequence of belief in divine action reacts on the belief itself to confirm
it; thus, a circular action is established.
Mlle Ve did not accept willingly the
impersonal character of the Force which, she thought, acted upon her. She
wanted communion with a loving personal God. Now, if, on the one hand, the
Experience lacked traits which would have characterized the manifestation of a
personal being; on the other, the practical effects of the ecstasy were not
those to be expected of a brutal, unconscious power. This train of conflicting
thoughts came to a head in reflections following the Fourteenth Ecstasy. I
quote :
“ In this divine contact I gather
strength, light, a sort of vivification of my moral being, all things which, it
seems to me, can only come from a personal Being. I do not see how these forces
could come from a blind energy. Am I not j ustified in ascending from the work
to the Workman ? ” She concludes that an “ act of faith ” is legitimately
required of her. “ I believe, then, that I have the right not to stop at mere
observation, but for the sake of my moral life, to add the conclusions of my
unshakeable faith in a personal God.”
We may observe in passing that this
bit of reasoning is common to-day to all those—among them are found
distinguished theologians —who base their religious faith upon “inner
experience.” They, as well as Mlle Ve, pass, as I have shown elsewhere
, from an influx of
energy, directed toward the realization of their ideal, to a personal God as
its cause.
Fortunately or unfortunately for Mlle
Ve, she is too keen-witted to rest satisfied with this argument. A little
later, two months before the last Experience, she writes :
“ I am disturbed by that which takes
place in me at the time of the Experience. I think of it almost constantly and
I see less and less clearly into it. This Experience, so frequently repeated,
has remained for me inexplicable. Each time it possesses a living value for me.
It is as real as any other inner experience, and each time it gives me the same
impression of contact with a something outside of myself, yet within me, that
reaches beyond me and envelopes me. And now, when I think of it, I no longer
find God, or at least not the God able to satisfy me, the God of Jesus Christ,
and I almost come to the conclusion that I have allowed myself to be deceived
by my imagination, that there is nothing in it outside of my own self.” “ I am
compelled to observe,” she wrote a little earlier, “ that alone the meaning I
give to it, instinctively and retrospectively, is religious and divine.”
When these thoughts had once found
lodgment in her mind, the great Experience was doomed. As a matter of fact,
however, additional reasons already mentioned contributed to its cessation.
From now on, communion with Christ, in a state resembling the stage named “
contemplation ” in the classical Ascent of the Soul to God, replaced the
Experience as source of affective comfort and moral energy.
* * *
One of the curious points insisted
upon by all mystics is the invulnerability of their experience, and therefore
the right to absolute assurance in the truth of their revelation. What light
does the account ’of Mlle Ve throw upon this problem ? After the first
Experience she affirmed an absolute certainty of the action within her of a
divine and impersonal power. No one need deny that at the time she felt
absolutely-certain. But that is a fact of very little significance. More
important are the serious doubts concerning the divinity and even the objective
existence of the Power that arose in her after full acquaintance with the
Experience. Must not these doubts be accepted as proof that her assurance
referred not to a fact of immediate experience, but to an interpretation by her
own mind —and; apparently, a wrong interpretation ?
In the present instance, the only
unassailable “ revelations ” appear to have consisted in the following classes
of phenomena :
1.
Various feelings of cold, of quivering, etc. ; i.e., disturbances
of sensory and motor innervation, coming and going with considerable swiftness
and violence.
2.
Various ideas awakened by these sensations, and their accompanying
emotions.
3.
A total and usually startingly sudden loss of consciousness.
4.
On recovering of consciousness, various feelings similar to those
characterizing the first phase, and a sense of fatigue or exhaustion.
5.
Various emotions and ideas connected with her present and past
experiences ; in particular, the idea of a divine power as the cause of the
present experience.
6.
A change in her mood and moral attitude. This change seems to
consist essentially in a disappearance of irritating tensions and of worrying
impulses and cravings. Thus a greater degree of unification of the self is
attained ; and, correlated with it, a mood of greater optimism and energy.
That all these things happened to Mlle
Ve is, of course, incontrovertible. But her claim of absolute certainty refers
not to mental contents, but to the objective reality of an external
power that is thought of as their cause or object: she claims absolute
assurance of the existence of a transcendent, divine Power.
The derived, interpretative nature of
that conviction is established by the appearance in her mind of doubt as to its
truth. She could not have doubted her feeling of cold, or of fatigue, or her
greater hopefulness ; but she could and did doubt the validity of her causal
interpretation of these facts. We shall have to consider more fully elsewhere
the ground for the widespread belief that a revelation of God or of the
Absolute is given in mystical ecstasy.
111. Mystical Ecstasy in
English Poetry.
Among the propagandists of the belief
in the transcendental and revelatory nature of mystical ecstasy, great poets
hold a dominant position. Their faith in an Invisible World is anchored on
ecstatic trance-experiences, and it is under the indelible impression
of these mysterious adventures that
they bear testimony to the age-old claims of man that he is immortal and that
he need not wait for death in order to be initiated into celestial existence.
The clearest description of ecstatic
trance with which I am acquainted in English poetry is found in “ Tintern
Abbey,” where Wordsworth in unforgettable words speaks of
"
That serene and blessed mood
In which
the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood,
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While,
with an eye made quiet by the power, We see into the life of things.”
Similar words in the Prehide
describe apparently a similar experience :
“ Gently did my soul
Put off
her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood Naked, as in the presence of her God.”
Tennyson was. familiar with
trance-ecstasies and was influenced by them perhaps even more deeply than
Wordsworth. In the conclusion to the Holy Grail the following words are placed
in the mouth of King Arthur :
“ Let
visions of the night or of the day
Come as
they will ; and many a time they come. Until this earth he walks on seems not
earth, This light that strikes his eyeball is not light, This air that smites
his forehead is not air But vision—yea, his very hand and foot— In moments when
he feels he cannot die, And knows himself no vision to himself, Nor the high
God a vision, nor that One
Who rose
again ; Ye have seen what ye have seen1.”
Every one of the features which we
have learned to regard as characteristic of ecstasy is mentioned or implied in
these passages— the disappearance of the external world ; the loss of bodily
control and of the consciousness of the existence of the body ; an impression
of limitless extension of the self, growing, it seems, in proportion to the
removal of the limitations imposed upon the self by the
1
See also The Mystic, in Suppressed Poems of Alfred, Lord
Tennyson, London, 1910.
The hero
in “ The Princess ” is afflicted by
"
Weird seizures, Heaven knows what.
On a sudden in the midst of men and
day, And while I walked and talked as heretofore, I seemed to move among a
world of ghosts, And feel myself the shadow of a dream.”
Sir Crichton-Browne, who quotes these
lines, is of the opinion that they describe in outline an attack of petit
mal—such “ dreamy mental states being often the prelude or accompaniment of
Epilepsy.—Cavendish Lecture, Lancet, June 6th and 13th, 1895.
realization of the presence of the
external world and the body; a sense of lofty and clear illumination which,
however, refuses to let itself be put into words ; and, finally, ail
incomparable delight.
Wordsworth claimed—I quote Miss
Caroline Spurgeon—that “ he had discovered a way to effect the necessary
alteration in ourselves which will enable us to catch glimpses of the truths
expressing themselves all round us1.” I do not know what his method
was. Tennyson was more communicative ; in a letter to a friend, he wrote :
“ A kind of waking trance I have
frequently had, quite up from boyhood, when I have been alone. This has
generally come upon me through repeating my own name two or three times to
myself silently, till all at once, as it were out of the intensity of the
consciousness of individuality, the individuality itself seemed to dissolve
and fade away into boundless being, and this not a confused state, but the
clearest of the clearest, the surest of the surest, the weirdest of the
weirdest, utterly beyond words, where death was an almost laughable
impossibility, the loss of personality (if it were so) seeming no extinction
but the only true life. . . . This might be the state which St Paul describes '
Whether in the body I cannot tell, or whether out of the body I cannot tell.’ ”
And he adds : “I am ashamed of my feeble description. Have I not said the state
is utterly beyond words2 ? ”
The poet seems not to have known that
he was using a time- honoured method. Hindoo mystics have long ago taught us that
in order to escape the delusion of the senses, to see into the real life of
things, and to become one with the All, one needs only to repeat a mysterious
syllable. Long search and practice have made the Hindoos proficient far beyond
our great poets in the production of mystical trances. They are acquainted with
several successful methods, some of which, I imagine, would have appeared
unseemly to the Poet Laureate of the British Empire—this one, for instance : “
While holding the body, head and neck motionless, look at the tip of your nose,
with a tranquil self, devoid of anxiety or fear, and, adhering to the rules of
Brahma Kamis, concentrate the mind on Brahma
.”
The trances of Tennyson do not seem to
have reached complete unconsciousness, but in other respects they are quite
similar to those of Symonds and of the Yogin. They bear, moreover, essential
1
Mysticism in English Literature, Cambridge, 1913, p. 63.
2
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, A Memoir by his Son, New York, 1897,
vol. I, p. 320.
similarity to the drug-intoxication
regarded by non-civilized peoples as divine possession. Let it be added that
they may be reproduced at will and without the assistance of drugs by most or
all of those who may care to do so, provided they be possessed of some
patience.
James Russell Lowell passed through at
least one ecstatic experience. It came upon him in the course of a discussion
of spiritism. There are few topics better able to raise spinal shivers and to
prepare the mind for hallucinations. Under date of September 20th, 1842 (he was
then twenty-three years old) he wrote to a friend :—
“ I had a revelation last Friday
evening. I was at Mary’s, and happening to say something of the presence of
spirits (of whom, I said, I was often dimly aware), Mr. Putnam entered into an
argument with me on spiritual matters. As I was speaking the whole system rose
up before me like a vague Destiny looming from the abyss. I never before so
clearly felt the spirit of God in me and around me. The whole room seemed to me
full of God. The air seemed to waver to and fro with the presence of something.
I knew not what. I spoke with the calmness and clearness of a prophet.
“ I cannot tell you what this
revelation was. I have not yet studied it enough. But I shall perfect it one
day, and then you shall hear it and acknowledge its grandeur. It embraces all
other systems1.”
With his mind full of invisible
presences, Lowell felt the proximity of “ something.” “ The air,” says he, “
seemed to waver to and fro with the presence of Something. I knew not what.”
Why, then does he permit himself, in the sentence immediately preceding, to say
that he felt clearly “ the spirit of God ” and that the whole room seemed to be
full of God ? It cannot, however, be said that there is anything unusual in
this. Lowell is merely thinking and writing in the amazingly loose way that is
tolerated in things mystical and religious. May we not liken the poet’s “
feeling of a presence ” to the well-known feeling which, in the dark, makes us
aware of the proximity of a “ ghost ” ?
1 Letters of James Russell Lowell, ed. by Charles Eliot Norton, 1894, vol. I, p. 69.
Compare this instance, chosen from
many in the religious life : "I also in my youth ardently pursued these
subjects of knowledge and I even prayed God to help me to attain them in order
that I might be more useful to my Congregation. After this prayer I once found
myself inundated with a vivid light; it seemed to me that a veil was lifted up
from before the eyes of the spirit, and all the truths of human sciences, even
those that I had not studied, became manifest to me by an infused knowledge, as
was once the case with Solomon. This state of intuition lasted about
twenty-four hours, and then, as if the veil had fallen again, I found myself as
ignorant as before.”—St. Francis Xavier, as quoted by Poulain, in Graces of
Interior Prayer, p. 279.
As to the stupendous revelation, the
poet never consigned it to paper. It was unutterable at the time, and we may
assume that if ever he caught intelligible glimpses of it, they possessed no
particular significance.
We may well pause a moment to comment
upon the practical, significance of this fact: great poets, gifted with means
of literary fascination, and thus insidious teachers of multitudes, find an
assurance of the truth of ancient beliefs dear to them in trances which come
spontaneously to many and which can be induced artificially in most persons.
And thousands of our contemporaries, not lacking in distinction and knowledge
but ignorant of psychology, fall under the spell of these dazzling teachers and
say with Miss Spurgeon : “ Wordsworth’s claim is a great claim, but he would
seem to have justified it1.” Thus is raised and solved in a naive
way the profound question that continues to divide philosophers : Is there in
mysticism an intuition, a direct knowledge of Reality, to which reason cannot
attain, and, if there is, what is the value to man of that revelation
* * *
IV. Scientific Inspiration or Revelation.
There are few beliefs more widely
entertained than that of the passivity2 of the artist at the supreme
creative moment. It is a common dictum that he must wait upon “ inspiration.”
That word, so ready upon the tongue in connexion with artistic creation, points
to the spontaneity, the unexpectedness, of this kind of mental production. A
well-known saying of Goethe may be appropriately quoted here as it expresses
very well the current opinion :—
“ All productivity of the highest
kind, every important conception, every discovery, every great thought which
bears fruit, is in no one’s control, and is beyond every earthly power. Such
things are to be regarded as unexpected gifts from above, as pure divine
products3.”
Psychology would seek to penetrate
deeper than Goethe into this great problem of apparent spontaneous creation. It
would learn something of the relation of “ inspiration ” to purpose, effort,
and knowledge—something that would give us a degree of control over the
so-called “ gifts from above.”
1
Loc. cit., p. 65.
Other ecstatic “ revelations " are reported in the following chapter.
2
It need hardly be said that the sense of passivity of the artist
and of the scientist is independent of the ethico-religious conceptions in
which is involved the passivity of the Christian mystic. There is no question
of a surrender of the egoistic will to the divine Will.
3
Eckermann’s Gesprache wit Goethe, vol. Ill, pp. 166-7, ed. Moldenhauer, Leipzig,
Reclame.
There is in Longfellow’s Diary
the following entry :
“ I wrote last evening a notice of
Allston’s poems. After which I sat till twelve o’clock by my fire, smoking,
when suddenly it came into my mind to write the ' Ballad of the Schooner
Hesperus,’ which I accordingly did. Then I went to bed, but could not sleep.
New thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them to the ballad. I
feel pleased with the ballad. It hardly cost me any effort. <It did not come
into my mind by lines, but by stanzas1.”
George Eliot, positivist as she was in
philosophy, declared that, in all the writings which she considered her best,
there was a “ not herself ” which took possession of her and made her feel “
her own personality to be merely the instrument through which the spirit acted
.”
A similar affirmation is made by the Goncourts:
“ It is fate,” they say, " that brings to you the initial idea. Then,
an unknown force, a superior will, a sort of compulsion to write commands you
and leads your pen ; so much so that at times the book you have written
does not seem to be your own .”
In not limiting revelation to artistic
creation, but in extending it to “ every important ” and “ great ” thought,
Goethe was true to the facts : science, as well _as. art, may be a
beneficiary of revelation.
We begin with an instance which shows
essential features of a revelation, and yet not far removed from the
commonplace. Prince Kropotkin, before becoming an anarchist, had for several
years been intensely interested in the physical conformation of Asia. In the
course of his labours—I quote from his Memoirs—he had “ marked on a large-scale
map all geological and physical observations that had been made by different
travellers, and tried to find out what structural lines would answer best to
the observed realities.” This preparatory work took him over two years. “ Then
followed months of intense thought in order to find out what the bewildering
chaos of scattered observations meant, until one day, all of a sudden, the
whole became clear and comprehensible, as if it were illuminated with a flash
of light. The main structural lines of Asia are not north and south, or
west and east ; they are from the south-west to the north-east. . . . There are
not many joys in human life equal to the joy of the sudden birth of a
generalization, illuminating the mind after a long period of patient research1.”
Here the great joy, rising almost to
ecstasy, follows the illumination as a rational consequence of its
perceived significance. It is the ecstasy of Archimedes, running naked through
the streets of Syracuse after having discovered the principle of specific
gravity, shouting “ eureka, eureka ! ”
The great French mathematician, Henri
Poincare, provides us with far more unusual instances of scientific revelation.
In an article on invention in mathematics, he made the surprising remark that
the most striking feature of mathematical invention is " apparent sudden
illumination.” Of one of the greatest of his discoveries, the fonctions
Fuchsiennes he wrote :—
" I had been endeavouring for two
weeks to demonstrate that there could exist no function analogous to those I
have since called fonctions Fuchsiennes. Each day I spent an hour or two
at my working table . . . but I came to no solution. One evening, against my
habit, I drank some black coffee. I could not sleep; ideas crowded in my mind ;
I felt them knocking against each other, until two of them hung together, as it
were, and formed a stable combination. In the morning, I had established the
existence of a class of fonctions Fuchsiennes. There remained merely to
set down the results, and that was done in a few hours2.”
This accomplished, he set about
exploring systematically the new domain brought to view by the discovery. In
the course of that exploration a problem arose which again stubbornly resisted
solution : “ My efforts served only to give me a fuller knowledge of the
difficulty —that was already something gained. So far, my work was entirely
conscious. Thereupon, I left for Mont Valerien, where I was to be during my
military service ; my preoccupations became therefore very different. One day,
as I was crossing the Boulevard, the solution of the difficulty appeared
suddenly.” He found himself in possession of all the elements for the solution.
Nothing remained
1
Memoirs of a Revolutionist, P. Kropotkin, 1908, p. 211.
2
Henri Poincare, Science et Mtthode, Paris, 1920, pp. 50-1.
The distinguished chemist, A. Kekule, reported two important
discoveries made by him under similar conditions. He concluded his account with
these words “ Let us learn to dream, gentlemen. Then, perhaps, we shall find
the truth . . . but let us beware of publishing our dreams before they have
been put to the proof by the waking understanding.” Berichte der Deutschen
chemischen Gesellschaft, 1890, vol. 23, p. 1306. I quote from the “ Kekule
Memorial Lecture ” in the Journal of the Chemical Soc., London, 1898,
vol. LXXIII, p. 100.
for him to do but to bring them
together and to organize them. This he did, as he says, “ at one sitting and
without any trouble whatsoever1.”
Of another mathematical discovery,
made while out walking, he wrote that it came to him “ with the
accustomed traits : brevity, suddenness, arid immediate certitude2.”
An equally remarkable instance is that
of the greatest discovery made by Sir Wm. Rowan Hamilton3. In a
letter to Professor P. G. Tait, dated October 15th, 1858, he wrote :—
" P.S.—To-morrow will be the
fifteenth birthday of the Quaternions. They started into life, or light, full
grown, on the 16th of October, 1843, as I was walking with Lady Hamilton to
Dublin, and came up to Brougham Bridge, which my boys have since called the
Quaternion Bridge, that is to say, I then and there felt the galvanic circuit
of thought close ; and the sparks which fell from it were the fundamental
equations between i, j, k; exactly such as I have used them ever since. I pulled
out on the spot a pocket-book, which still exists, and made an entry, on which at
the very moment I felt that it might be worth my while to expend the labour
of at least ten (or perhaps fifteen) years to come. But then it is fair to say
that this was because I felt a problem to have been at that moment
solved —an intellectual want relieved—which had haunted me for at least fifteen
years before3.”
* * *
Whatever its explanation, the fact
itself has to be accepted: in artistic as in scientific discovery; i.e., both
in the field of imagination and of rational construction, there come, after
periods of ' mental striving or vague brooding, fructifying moments, effortless
and unexpected, which give the impression of inspiration.
But if Goethe was right in including
among the “ gifts from above ” not only poetical thoughts but also great
thoughts of any
1
Poincare, loc. cit., p. 53.
2
Ibid., p. 52.
3
Life of Sir Wm. Rowan Hamilton, by R. P. Graves, 3 vols., Dublin, 1882, vol. II, pp. 434-6.
In a letter to his son, August 5th,
1865, the Rev. Archibald H. Hamilton, adds some interesting particulars showing
how close to his attention was the problem when it was finally solved. Shortly
before the discovery, “ the desire to discover the laws of the multiplication
referred to [this was the especial difficulty to be overcome] regained with me
a certain strength and earnestness, which had for years been dormant.” And,
about the walk with Lady Hamilton when the discovery was made, he says, in the
same letter : " Although she talked with me now and then, yet an
undercurrent of thought was going on in my mind which gave at last a result,
whereof it is not too much to say that I felt at once the importance.”
He then repeats the image of the closing of an electric circuit.
sort, he was wrong in limiting these
gifts to great and important thoughts. All kinds of ideas, and ideas of
all degrees of puerility and importance) appear Jn pup minds under the
conditions which we have found to be those of .revelation. “The Ballad of the
Schooner Hesperus,” which flowed from Longfellow’s pen by stanzas, without
effort, does not embody any great thought. Mozart seems to have claimed that
all, and not only his remarkable, musical compositions came to him
unexpectedly.
But why look so far for illustrations
? Almost every moment of conscious life provides everyone of us with similar
facts. The common instances of “ bright ” ideas, of happy thoughts, which offer
themselves when we have ceased to seek them, are disconnected . from the train
of thought of the moment and seem not the reward of-' effort but gifts
from unknown sources.,^
Action also—not only processes of
intellectual discovery—may be characterized by the inspiration-features. When
in bed in the morning, we have probably all of us reasoned with ourselves about
the desirability or even the necessity of getting up, without getting up for
all that. And then, when the mind had returned to somnolent blessedness or had
passed to another train of thought, suddenly we found ourselves on our feet.
Nothing could be falser than to say. that our actions are always the immediate
and direct consequences of relevant trains of thought. There are persons who
believe in the existence of evil spirits because, like Miss X., they have observed
that they do not deliberately do the evil deeds of which they are occasionally
guilty. They find themselves doing evil as we have, on occasion, found
ourselves on our feet in the morning, and as we find ideas popping _up into
our_heads when least expected. We are., essentially creatures of impulse, of
instinct, and of habit.
* * *
The facts of inspiration and
revelation are explained to-day in three ways. They are referred to “ God ” as
their cause ; that, however, is not really an explanation but merely a
displacement of the problem. Or they are referred to a mental (not merely a
nervous) activity of which the person is not aware, i.e., to so-called
sub-conscious processes. Or, again, both these conceptions are combined : God
is supposed to make use of the subconscious in order to produce revelations in
the human mind. This synthetic explanation pleases those who like to keep the
old and at the same time enjoy seeming abreast of the times. Unfortunately,
this last hypothesis suffers from the disadvantages attaching to each of the
conceptions which it combines. From the point of view of science, the second
explanation offers no advantage over the first; it also is an appeal to the
unknown.
If we are not able to say how the
creation or invention is formed, we can at least reduce the mysterious to the
commonplace by showing that eyenjn the most striking of the
well-authenticated instances there is nothing more to explain than in ordinary
thinking.
* * *
An examination of striking scientific
revelations yields the following results. They take place only after a period
of conscious / work and they cornplete pr_ continue something
already begun. When the solution is complex, it does not come to the mind with
all the details fully worked out. The key is at hand, but it has still to be
used. Or, as Poincare says of the principle that has been given, “ il faut
deduire les consequences.” These revelations are rare, and, what is more
important, discoveries just as remarkable are made in the more ordinary way, i.e.,
in answer, as it seems, to continuous effort. Finally, if it is true that the
solution of a problem may come unexpectedly and, at times, long after we have
ceased to be actively engaged in its consideration, nevertheless there is no
satisfactory evidence in support of the assumption commonly made that it ever
appears after the person has ceased to be interested in it.
On the contrary, the solutions that
come in the form of inspiration refer to problems which have not been finally
dismissed, which have remained in the “ back of the mind,” ready to force
themselves upon the attention. A problem in a quiescent stage may flash
unexpectedly into the fringe of consciousness and be immediately and almost
unconsciously repressed and dismissed, unless it should happen—as it
occasionally does—that it present itself in a new light. Then interest and
attention are aroused, and the problem is again taken up. In the new light, the
way to the solution may be discerned.
Similar remarks apply also to mystical
inspirations. The monitions and other revelations that come to the Christian
mystics are about topics that have much engaged their thoughts.
As to the quality of these revelations, it~rarely, surpasses the
entirely commonplace, and, as far as our information extends, it never goes
beyond what may be expected from the unaided effort of the person himself. The
reader may be reminded here of the series of revelations vouchsafed to St
Marguerite Marie and used with conspicuous success by Roman Catholic priests in
the establishment of the devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Neither do the
instances of scientific revelation with which we are acquainted transcend the
246
PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM apparent capacity of men who possess the knowledge
and ability of the individuals who experienced them1.
The preceding observations cast a grey
tint upon the lurid colours in which the phenomenon we are studying appears at
the first glance. The mental processes of inspirational invention and of
ordinary thinking are essentially similar. It is a complete misrepresentation
of thought to picture it as gaining its ends by a straightforward,
uninterrupted flowing movement. Conscious processes are, on the contrary, full
of stops, of breaks, and of sudden forward leaps. They are like a fire which
seems to go out when blown upon, and which spasmodically flares up again when
left to itself. It is often when the unproductivity of effort has compelled us
to give up, that an illumination surprises us. The revivalist admonishes the
repentant soul to let go, to surrender into the arms of Jesus ; then salvation
may come. The mystic, likewise, seeks the Divine in passivity.
Old Egyptian wisdom had already reduced the truth involved in these practices
to an aphorism : “ The archer hitteth the target partly by pulling, partly by
letting go ; the boatman reacheth the landing partly by pulling, partly by
letting go2.”
Thought proceeds very much like the
formation of the chain we have all seen coming into existence on the screen of
a movingpicture theatre. Each link appears separately and jumps into place
suddenly. There is no more continuity in thinking than in the formation of that
continuous chain. For a time the strain of purpose seems to act as a centre
which attracts to itself, as it were, the various elements of the problem.
These elements appear most irregularly. There are moments when no progress is
made; attention relaxes and turns in desultory fashion to other things.
Suddenly a new link pops into consciousness and adds itself to the chain. Then
the directing purpose may again be felt and the double process of effort and
relaxation repeats itself. The interruptions may be so brief as to be
unnoticed, and then, remaining under the impression of the effort, we assume
that the idea has appeared during the attentive phase
.
1
For many years past the Society for Psychical Research has
attempted to prove the appearance in the human mind of specific items of
knowledge under conditions which would make their acquisition impossible by
natural means. It does not seem to us that they have been successful in
removing from their observations and experiments all the possibilities of
error.
2
From the instructions of Ptah Hotep to his son. Quoted by Hocking
in The Meaning of God in Hitman Experience, p. 419.
The moments of interrupted attention
are filled with nothing at all, or with thoughts and feelings belonging to
another topic: we may simply look up, finger our eyeglasses, consult the clock,
light a cigarette, and presto, the idea we had ceased to seek is present.
Again, the arrested voluntary activity—the passive phase of the process—may be
protracted, and the task given up for the present. A week or a month later, a
constructive thought may suddenly and unexpectedly appear and may lead to a
speedy solution of the problem.
How prone we are to overlook the
return, in the penumbra of consciousness, of problems held in suspended
animation, is an interesting fact classed by the psychologists together with
the disregard of habitual and meaningless stimuli -that fall upon our sense
organs. Careful and timely introspection alone reveals their presence. When
Poincare remarks that during his military service he was occupied with matters
other than mathematical problems, we are not to understand him as affirming
that the problem of the fauctions Fuchsiennes, with which he had been
long and profoundly engaged, never crossed his mind. Sir William Rowan Hamilton
states that during the weeks preceding the revelation active interest in the
problem of Quaternions had revived, and that as he was approaching the bridge,
although he was talking “ now and then ” with Lady Hamilton, yet in his mind “
an undercurrent of thought was going on ” which suddenly flared up into the
memorable equations. When these frequent undercurrents of thought—brief and
weak as they often are—have no particular importance, nothing is easier than to
disregard and forget them altogether.
The problem .of inspiration,
illumination, revelation—call it what you will—does not, then, refef~ordy to
very remarkable and rare occurrences. The traits by which revelation is
commonly separated from ordinary, natural, human products are in various
degrees characteristic of all thought and action. Unexpectedness, absence of
effort, passivity (and also, as we shall see subsequently, clearness and
certainty) may belong alike to the great and the small, the true and the false,
the religious and the secular. The day is past when these traits may be
regarded as pointing to a dualism in the origin and in the nature of men’s
thoughts and actions, stamping some as altogether human and others as gifts
from above. Amazing experiences, in which, following upon unavailing mental
effort, the solution of a difficult problem appears suddenly and unexpectedly,
are merely extreme instances of the ordinary processes of purposive, rational
thinking. In the startling instances, the problems are
248 PSYCHOLOGY
OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM sufficiently momentous and the phase of passivity is
long enough to arrest attention and to cause wonder.
* * *
We have so far merely described and
classified the facts ; we may now explain why a long break in the
attention-effort is at times the precursor of a surprising forward movement.
Certain well- understood facts will lead us to an hypothesis of some
probability. Suppose that you have learned to sort, according to colour, a pack
of cards into boxes placed before you. You have repeated the operation a
sufficient number of times to establish the proper movement-habits, so that
they have become more or less automatic. Now, you are asked to sort the same
pack of cards into the same boxes, this time not according to colour, but
according to figure, i.e., you are to place all the aces in one box, all
the kings in another box, etc. The habits previously established of sorting
according to colour will conflict with those you would now like to form, and
your progress will be impeded ; it will be slower than if you had not
previously formed the colour-habits.
Something similar happens when
learning any art that involves movements—learning to typewrite, for instance.
Here one makes at first many wrong movements and each wrong movement
establishes a tendency to repeat that wrong movement. If one continues
practising too long, without rest, the moment comes when no further gain is
made. That point is reached when as many wrong movements as right ones are
made.
Now it is occasionally observed that
after a sufficiently long rest—several weeks or months—on resuming the
practice, it seems that an improvement has taken place. As a matter of fact, improvement
after a long rest has been observed under experimental conditions. W. F. Book
reports the following observations :—
A subject practised typewriting until
he made, during the last ten ten-minute practices, the average score of 1,508
words per period of ten minutes. After an interval of six months, he was tested
ten times, ten minutes each time, under exactly the same conditions as those
prevailing during the practice. The average score was 1,433 and the number of
errors was greater than during the last practice series. He refrained again
from using the typewriter, this time, for a whole year. Thus one year and a
half elapsed between the cessation of the practice and a second memory test.
During this second test, the average score for ten ten-minute periods was 1,611
words, and the percentage of errors was less than during the first memory test.
“ There seems,” says Book, “ to have been an actual increase in skill during
the rest interval of one year and a half. How is this to be explained ? The increase
in score shown by our second series was due, so far as we could make out,
rather to the disappearance, with the lapse of time, of numerous interfering
associations, bad habits of' attention incidentally acquired in the course of
learning, interfering habits and tendencies, which, as they faded, left the
more firmly established typewriting associations free to act. Such hindering
associations were developed in all stages of practice and at the ‘ critical
stages ’ in great masses, forming a serious impediment to progress. After the
rest of a year and a half these conflicting associations and hindering
tendencies had noticeably disappeared.” The six months which elapsed between
the last practice and the first memory test were not sufficient, in the opinion
of Book, to permit the disappearance of the hindering associations, hence the
lowered score. “ A year later, during the second memory test, the absence of
difficulties and the greater ease had become so prominent as to attract the
attention of the learner. The errors have slightly decreased and the score is
better than ever before. We, therefore, conclude that it was the disappearance
of the interfering associations and tendencies naturally developed in the
course of the learning which caused the increase in the score1.”
This explanation may be presented in a
simplified way. Suppose that during a practice period you have made the right
movement ten times and another movement five times. The right movement is more
firmly established than the wrong one ; nevertheless, there is a tendency to
make the wrong movement, and that tendency interferes with the tendency to
produce the right movement. Now, let a sufficiently long interruption in the
practice take place. The moment will come when, as it is less deeply
established, the tendency to the wrong movement will have died out, while that
to the right movement will still be present. It is true that it will be
diminished in intensity, but the more important fact is that tendencies to the
wrong movement will no longer interfere with it. (Obviously, if the interval is
long enough, both the right and the wrong tendencies acquired during the
practice will have disappeared.) Hence, when you return to your practice, the
chances are that it will be more perfect than at any
1 W.F. Book, The Psychology of Skill : with Special Reference to
its Acquisition in Typewriting, University of Montana Publications in
Psychology, Bulletin No. 53, Psychological Series No. 1. This
experiment is summarized in Thorndyke’s Educational Psychology, vol. II,
pp. 311-17.
Thorndike sees in this instance the
possibility of another interpretation than that offered by Book, namely, that
the learner had not yet reached his limit when the practice ceased, and that,
as chance would have it, during the second test a spurt of progress took place.
Nevertheless, the same author, in discussing the permanence of improvement (p.
301), admits that an interruption of practice may result in an improvement by
the “ weakening of interfering habits.
previous time. You have improved
without practising. That improvement is not the effect of effort; it does not
necessitate any selective activity of consciousness at all. The prevalent
tendency to ascribe gains such as this to the activity of a subconsciousness, justifies
whatever emphasis may be placed upon the preceding remark.
How one may pass from the above
instance of improvement in typewriting to the explanation of scientific
inspiration, it is easy to see. Thinking, as well as typewriting, involves a
neuro-muscular mechanism. Our thoughts assume a verbal form, even when they are
not expressed in audible speech or in writing. The merely “ mental ”
formulation of thought does not take place without incipient innervation of the
speech and of other mechanisms.
We may therefore say that thinking,
like typewriting, involves false moves. As we repeat the unprofitable thinking,
while exploring blind alleys, the production of the right thought becomes
increasingly difficult. We all know that under certain circumstances is seems
as if the mind had become limited to wrong directions ; it goes round and round
in the same vicious circles. If at such times we let go, thus producing a
condition that will make possible a weakening or a disappearance of the
unprofitable thought-movements, and subsequently return to the problem, we
stand a better chance of striking a new path—and the new path may be the right
path.
Thus, we may understand why the
scientist, the philosopher and other persons are at times surprised by the
appearance of fruitful ideas which strenuous efforts had failed to produce. Has
the effort been useless ? Certainly not. Or, let us rather answer, some
of the effort, and perhaps all of it, was necessary. Had not the problem been
examined in every possible way, the solution would not, so far as the facts can
be read, have been secured after relaxation.
Possibly it is not useless to repeat
that remarkable inspirations of this sort are very rare, and that usually a
return of the problem does not lead to a solution : wrong movements may again
be made.
It might be remarked that, strictly
speaking, it is not the thinker who returns to the problem; it is rather the
problem that suddenly and unexpectedly returns to the thinker. And it is
usually impossible to say why a problem reappears at any particular moment. But
it is quite sufficient for our purpose to point out that there is nothing
unusual in that aspect of scientific revelation. We have frequently not the
slightest indication of the reason why we find ourselves suddenly thinking of a
particular thing—that is the way of the mind.
* * *
The description of scientific
revelation has disclosed to us its fundamental identity with the mental
processes of ordinary productive thinking. Whatever differences exist are
differences of degree, and, on the whole, unimportant. We have also obtained
what seems to us a satisfactory explanation of the way—or at least one of the
ways— in which relaxation, passivity, and rest favour the appearance of new
thoughts.
There remain the more difficult and
fundamental problems of the origin and of the formation of new thoughts. Whence
do they come, how are they created, and why do they appear when they do ? These
are essential problems of mental production which we shall make no attempt to
solve. In conclusion we may repeat that, with regard to specific problems, a
necessary condition of their solution by “ inspiration ” is an antecedent,
general preparation sufficient for their solution and, moreover, a direct
consideration of them. The revelation of the /emotions Fuchsiennes and
of the Quaternions came to great mathematicians who had worked long at the
problems .
Poetical inspiration follows the same
fundamental law : Poems do not flow out from the pen and eloquent speeches from
the tongue, of persons who are not in the habit of thinking poetically or
eloquently ; and the substance of extemporized poems and speeches is dependent
upon previously acquired knowledge.
THE MAIN CHARACTERISTICS OF
TRANCE-CONSCIOUSNESS AND CERTAIN ATTENDANT PHENOMENA, IN PARTICULAR THOSE
PRODUCING THE IMPRESSION OF ILLUMINATION
The dictionaries correctly single out the main peculiarity of trance
when they define it as a “ state in which the soul seems passive, or to have
passed out of the body; a state of insensibility to mundane things.” But there
are degrees in the depth of trances, i.e., in the loss of mental
activity and in the concomitant sundering of the soul from the outside world
and the body. It is only when all consciousness has disappeared that the trance
is complete.
Entire agreement reigns among the
mystics regarding this, the basal characteristic of their mode of worship. The
description (Chapter VI) of the Ascent of the Soul makes a long argument in
support of that affirmation superfluous. It will be sufficient to remind the
reader of Santa Theresa’s descriptive classification. In the Second Degree
(Orison of Quiet), the understanding and memory act only at intervals. When the
will is active it “ works in a marvellous way without the least effort.” In the
Third Degree, the mental quiescence has become deeper : “ The powers of the
soul are incapable of occupying themselves with any other object than God . . .
; the soul feels herself dying to the world.” If, in these two stages, the soul
“ is able to indicate, at least by signs, what she experiences, in the Fourth
Degree (Ecstasy or Rapture) the soul is absorbed in enjoyment1
without understanding that which she enjoys.” “ The soul seems to leave the
organs which she animates ” (levitation). Finally, all consciousness may
disappear and, on waking, the soul may say in the words of Francis of Sales, “
I slept with my God and in the arms of the divine Presence and I knew it not.”
Most mystics believe, moreover, that
the “ suspended ” intelligence is replaced in the trance-state by a
supernatural understanding ; thus they would account for the conviction of
revelation.
1 We have accounted for the ordinary enjoyment characteristic of
most Christian mystical trances as being mainly the natural consequence of the
focussing of the mind upon a God of love.
What justification there may be for
that belief, we shall see presently.
The partial or total suspension of the
sensory and intellectual functions or, more generally, of mental activity, is
the fundamental trait of all trances, whether religious or not, and whether
produced naturally or artificially. It is accompanied by a great variety of
phenomena, the more important of which we must now describe.
Disturbances of time and space
perception, etc.—The
comparative study of trance-states has shown that they may include as primary
facts, or as products of expectation or suggestion, almost every possible
modification of sensation and motility: hyperassthesia, anaesthesia, analgesia,
contracture, paralysis, hallucination, etc. The visions, auditions, and other
similar phenomena of the drugaddict, as of the religious mystic, may be due
directly to physiological factors (the coloured arabesques of mescal, the
sensory disturbances in certain epileptic aurae, in mystical trances, etc.) ;
or, they may take shape under the influence of desire or aversion (a desire to
see Christ as he appeared after the Resurrection, a fear of the devil, a wish
for guidance in a particular situation, etc.
).
The perception of time may be greatly
modified. Events may pass amazingly quickly or be incredibly drawn out. The
world of space also may be altered ; distances and sizes are changed, the body
seems to expand enormously or to contract to nothing ; it loses weight and
becomes like air, it floats through space, etc.
Certain observations upon the effects
of ether and nitrous oxide made under experimental conditions by four persons,
including the writer, may be introduced here. One of the subjects who became
quickly unconscious, and on that account found introspection difficult,
remarked, however, that it was very much like going to sleep. Disturbances of
sensation were observed by all; prominent among these were, at various stages
of the intoxication, an unusual, pervasive warmth, a numbness of the skin, a
feeling of bodily enlargement or extension (by three of the subjects),
accompanied in two cases at least, (one under nitrous oxide, the other under
ether), with distension and, in one of these (ether), by what seemed increased
pressure of the body upon the couch. In all four cases sensations seemed to
come from an abnormal distance ; the voices of the attendants became faint and
receded. One of the subjects observed the reverse phenomenon on recovering
consciousness : " The first words heard appeared to come from a great
distance and with each succeeding word his voice became nearer and louder,
ending in what seemed to be a shout.” In one case there was a well marked
impression of greater distance of the bodily extremities. This illusion of
distance is probably the consequence of the decrease in the intensity of the
sensations—a decrease which leads to their total disappearance. An impression
of levitation was clearly realized by two of the subjects and another described
something similar as a " floating ’ ’ which followed upon the impression
of being “ blown up ” and “ becoming very light.”
The subjects had been requested to
indicate by lifting a finger that they heard and understood certain signals.
This response became gradually slower and feebler and finally failed
altogether. One of the subjects was aware of the request when she was no longer
able to move her finger. Another was much surprised to hear on awakening that
his last finger-movement had been long-delayed and feeble, for he had thought
to himself at the time that he would astonish the attendants by the promptness
and energy of his response. This last fact is interesting as a minor
illustration of the consequence of the lessened vigour and accuracy with which
the mind performs its functions. One of the subjects to whom a problem had been
given endeavoured in vain to solve it; she could not grasp the whole of it;
when she thought of the first part, the second vanished, and vice versa.
This person had, nevertheless, the impression that “ ideas were there in
profusion.”
Confirmation of most of these observations
may be found in the experiments of Elmer Jones1, and Jacobson
, and of others quoted or
mentioned in the preceding chapter.
1 In a description of the effect of chloroform upon himself, Elmer
E. Jones mentions slight hyperaesthesias during the earlier stage : “ The
colours in the spectrum appear a little brighter, letters and figures somewhat
clearer.” Hearing was disturbed by roaring sounds. “ All movements made
appeared to be much longer .... and much slower than they actually were.” With
increased anaesthesia the strangeness of the modifications of consciousness
increased also. Sounds appeared to come from nowhere and the intonations of
well-known voices became unfamiliar. “ At one stage of the experiment, when the
foot was touched with the point of an instrument, it seemed so far away that
the subject wondered if it were possible that his whole body was in a single
room.” The body seemed to be nowhere, “ simply floating in space.” It is a most
ecstatic feeling.”—The Waning of Consciousness Under Chloroform, Psychol.
Rev., vol. XVI, 1909, pp. 50-2.
Similar disturbances have been
observed in spontaneous trances. Unfortunately for us, the religious mystics
were too little interested in exact descriptions, and too utterly fascinated by
the unearthliness, the wonder, and the incomparable delights of their
experiences, to provide satisfactory accounts of sensory perturbations. Here
and there, however, we glean some information. Mlle Ve, for instance, observed
that “ the impression of the sequence of things, of time, disappeared1,”
and she mentions a number of unusual sensations and feelings. Suzo speaks of a
“ heavenly taste.” Tennyson remarked that, in his artificially induced trances,
time seemed no longer to exist, and several classical mystics mention levitation.
* * *
Photism.—Few of the lesser trance-phenomena are more striking and
incontestably wholly physiological in origin than a peculiar appearance of
light or brilliance which may be called photism. The word “ light ” is
frequently used by the mystics, but it is not always possible to know whether
they use it in a symbolical or in a realistic sense. In a great number of
instances, however, the perceptual quality of the experience cannot be doubted.
Jonathan Edwards, the great New
England metaphysician and third President of Princetown University, relates
how, after his conversion crisis, “ the appearance of all things was altered ;
there seemed to be, as it were, a calm beautiful appearance of divine glory in
almost everything : God’s excellency, His wisdom, His purity and love seemed to
appear in everything : in the sun, moon and stars ; in the water, in all
nature, which used greatly to fix my mind2.” Similarly, the Rev. J.
O. Peck writes, also after a conversion crisis, “ I have a fresh recollection
that when I went in the morning , . . into the field to work, the glory of God
appeared in all His visible creation. I well remember, we reaped oats, and
every straw and head of the oats seemed, as it were, arrayed in a rainbow
glory, if I may so express it, in the glory of God3.”
When describing visions during
ecstasy, St Theresa makes frequent use of similar brightness-terms. Of a vision
of Christ she says : “ The beauty of the whiteness of His hands surpasses
entirely everything one could imagine ” ; and, concerning a dove, “ its wings
seemed formed of scales of mother-of-pearl which threw off a vivid
1
First Ecstasy.
1
The Conversion of President Jonathan Edwards, published by the American Tract Society.
3 From a sermon by the Rev. J. O.
Peck, delivered in Brooklyn, October 21st, 1883.
splendour.” At times she sees “
flames.” Suzo and several other mystics speak of perceiving brilliant lights.
There has come into my hands a
particularly valuable instance of photism, that of a University teacher, a
doctor in philosophy, free from the traditional religious preconceptions and in
the habit of assuming a critical attitude in the presence of ecstatic
phenomena. When about twenty-four years old he fell in love (at the time of the
writing quoted below he was about thirty). It was not his first love affair,
but never before had he been so deeply in love. He proposed marriage to the
lady. Here we may quote from his letter :
“ She said she liked me and permitted
me to try and win her love. I spent most of the day in her company, but had to
leave early in the evening as I had some fifteen miles to walk to catch a
steamer that was to leave at five in the morning. The weather was fine and
still, the moon was full or almost so, and my way lay through a most
magnificent landscape. I had just had a fortnight of rest and was in perfect
health and good training and enjoyed the walk as much as I had ever enjbyed
one. I came very late to the little village, and went to bed at once. I slept
very well for three or four hours till I was called at four o’clock in the
morning. I got up at once, feeling fully reposed, and looked out of my window
to see where the steamer was lying. Then it was as if the world had changed
during the night : everything had become new and fresh, and I specially
remember the garden of my hotel, the road under the mountain-side, the lake and
the mountains, and above all the sun. It was as if it were the first time I saw
real sunshine, everything I had seen before being pale and lifeless as compared
to that sunshine. I thought I discovered the real life and beauty of the varied
colours of the fields and meadows and mountain-slopes as they had never been
discovered before. It seems to me now that I never doubted a moment that my new
world was the real one, the old one being somehow defective though I remember
asking myself on my way to the steamer whether the feeling of newness would
last or not. It did last, not only that day, but the following days and weeks
as well. For days and weeks I lived as in a dream, though I think I did my
daily work rather better than worse than habitually. I slept only four or five
hours every night for a long time, but never felt tired or sleepy—only my eyes
ached a little just as they do when I have had too little sleep.
“ I do not think I ever for a moment
interpreted the change in the appearance of things as an objective change,
though everything did look quite new. Neither did I interpret it in a religious
way— I was and remained an atheist or agnostic.”
This is doubtless the very phenomenon
described by Jonathan Edwards, the Rev. J. O. Peck, and a host of others, who
regarded it as a divine intervention : objects, apparently all visible
objects, gain added brilliance and are perceived with peculiar delight.
Without venturing upon any suggestion
regarding the physiological explanation of this phenomenon, we shall merely
note that it appears as a sequel to profound dynamic disturbances affecting the
very springs of life. The person last quoted remarks upon his “ intense joy in
life ” and notes that for a long time after the birth of love he got along well
with only four or five hours of sleep a day1.
Increased delight, if not the hypersesthesia,
may appear in other fields than that of vision. After ecstasy Madeleine found
that bread and water had a new, delicious flavour ; the very odours of the
hospital were delightful2. Victor Robinson, in An Essay on
Hasheesh, made similar observations : " In the morning [after taking
twenty minims of cannabis indica] my capacity for happiness is considerably
increased. I have an excellent appetite, the coffee I sip is nectar, and the
white bread ambrosia. I take my camera and walk to Central Park. It is a
glorious day. Everyone I meet is idealized. The lake never looked so placid
before. I enter the hot-houses, and a gaudy-coloured insect buzzing among the
lovely flowers fills me with joy3.” The enthusiastic expressions of
Weir Mitchell, when he
1
There is literally no end to the number of instances of photism
under great excitement, in ecstatic trances, and in certain specific disorders,
such as epilepsy. The following references may interest the reader.
Myers, Gurney, and Podmore, Phantasms
of the Living, vol. I, pp. 550-1.
The Welsh Revival, Proc. Soc. for
Psyc. Research, vol. XIX, 1905, pp.
128, 139, 145-61.
P. Janet, Nevroses et Icttes Fixes,
case of V. K., p. 98.
Interesting information may be found
under “ Glory ” in Hasting’s Dictionary of the Bible.
The burning bush of Moses, the Tongues
of Flame at Pentecost, may have had their origin in photisms.
2
Pierre Janet, Une Extatique, p. 230.
We have been told that at the
beginning of recovery, in diseases characterized by a sudden turning point, an
appearance of newness and an unusual delightful brightness of the visual field
are sometimes observed.
3
Medical Review of Reviews, New York, 1912, p. 73.
We do not intend to convey the
impression that wonderful feelings may arise only in trance, i.e., under
obvious limitation and degradation of consciousness. Perhaps any unusually
rapid metabolic change produces them. We recall the miracle worked in Tennyson
by a mutton-chop eaten after a long meat-fast. Feelings of sexual origin
contribute to the wonderfulness and ineffability of the experiences of many of
the great Christian mystics. The feelings of unfathomable mystery with which
the growing adolescent gazes upon himself and the world partakes of that double
origin.
Sir Crichton-Browne observed that in
many instances certain disturbances of consciousness, similar to those that
have occupied us, " persisted only while cerebral and mental development
was going on actively (during early adolescence) and vanished when maturity
was attained.”—Cavendish Lecture, Lancet, June 6th and 13th, 1895.
attempted
to describe the pleasure given him by the mescal-visions, have already been
quoted.
This phenomenon interests us here
mainly as a sign of a more or less widespread modification of the nervous
dynamism, a modification which may have important practical consequences. In
some religious conversions, these alterations are durable enough to permit the
establishment of new habits.
* * *
The impression of levitation.—We shall now see how, in three different circumstances (the
impressions of levitation, of increased moral energy, and of illumination), the
disappearance of ordinary feelings or the production of unusual feelings may
become the starting point for convictions which may or may not correspond to reality.
We have seen that the entranced
(whether under the effect of a drug or not) is at times under the impression
that his body has lost weight and is being lifted above the earth, or that his
soul has been liberated from the body and that he has become a pure spirit. In
her description of rapture Santa Theresa wrote, “ Often my body would become so
light that it lost all weight; at times this went so -far that I fno longer
felt the floor under my feet1.” She was aware of the presence of
forces that “ lifted her up2.” Suzo mentions the impression of “
floating.”
This impression may arise
independently of any religious preconception. In our own experiments with ether
and nitrous oxide, two of the subjects had the impression of levitation. Elmer
Jones reports that when under the influence of chloroform, “ with the
disappearance of the tactile sense and hearing, the body has completely lost
its orientation. It appears to be nowhere, simply floating in space. It is a
most ecstatic feeling3.”
The trance need not be very deep in
order to produce this impression. Pratt quotes one of his correspondents as
follows : ” It is a singular feeling or sensation which comes to me when I
pray, that while I pray I feel my body is lifted up from the floor and I feel
light and floating, so to speak, in the air. Though my eyes are shut, I see
objects far below and yet I feel my arms on my bed (as I usually kneel down
beside the bed). ... I feel no weight of body and my body becomes as light as a
feather4.”
1
Life, XX, p.
226.
3
Ibid., XX, p.
218.
4
The Waning of Consciousness under Chloroform, Psychol. Rev., XVI, 1909, p. 52
5
Pratt, loc. cit., p. 421-2
Lydiard H. Horton, in his observations
upon relaxation naturally produced, reports that “ of twenty subjects who
retained consciousness after they had completely relaxed, eight experienced the
illusion of levitation1.”
This illusion has been studied in
connexion with certain forms of insanity, and of psycho-physiological
alterations which precede death. Pieron has reported four instances of
death-bed impressions of levitation. The illusion often takes an elaborate form
: the dying person thinks that he is being carried to heaven by angels ;
others, presumably burdened with an evil conscience, are being dragged out of
their beds by demons and resist with all their remaining energy2. In
all these cases a benumbing of tactile sensations, and a decrease of the
intensity of the sensations dependent upon the tonus of the voluntary muscles
and of the vaso-motor system, constitute, most probably, the basis of the
illusion.
Perturbations of sensations in
themselves are, however, not sufficient to produce this illusion ; a general
lowering of the mental level is, in addition, required. As a matter of fact,
the loss of sensibility before death is accompanied by the beginning of a
general mental breakdown, and both the use of narcotic drugs and the
religious method of producing trance reduce mental life to a condition
resembling that of partial sleep. In dreams we suffer similar illusions, for
instance, the illusion of flying, and for similar reasons. When we are awake,
various ideas contradicting the dream come to our mind, and we say that it was
impossible. We realize that the body is heavier than air, that its weight
cannot be overcome without adequate means ; and we have, moreover, fairly
definite ideas about what would constitute adequate means of flying. But in
dreams, when these ideas do not present themselves, we have no reason for
rejecting as false the belief that we are flying. A thing can seem absurd only
to a mind that perceives contradictions. When contradicting ideas are absent,
either because the mental activity is reduced or for other reasons, then the
impossible thing is necessarily accepted.
* * *
The impression of increased moral
energy.—If the phenomena so far
discussed in this chapter, marvellous as some of them may seem, have on the
whole ceased to be regarded by educated persons
1
The Illusion of Levitation, J. of Abn. Psychol., XIII, 1918-9, p. 50. His method was to seat his subjects in easy
chairs and to ask them to relax completely, as if to go to sleep. He ascribes
the illusion (without sufficient reason, it seems to us) mainly to vaso-motor
dilatation.
2
H. Pieron, Contribution d la Psychologic des Mourants, Rev.
Philos., I9O2> vol. LIV, pp. 615-6.
as in any especial sense divine
manifestations, the accession in Christian mystical worship of moral strength,
of increased courage, hope, and altruism, continues to be looked upon as a
token of direct divine action. To-day it is upon facts of that class that the
belief in a God-Providence mainly rests1. In this respect Mlle Ve’s
argument is typical: “ In this divine contact, I gather strength, life, a sort
of vivification of my moral being, all things which it seems to me can come
only from a personal Being. I do not see how these forces could come from a
blind energy.”
In an effort to draw a distinction
between mystical experiences which are divine and those which are not, a leader
of contemporary • religious mysticism writes similarly: “To the mystic
himself the experience is evidence enough. It lights his lamp and girds his
loins for action ; it floods him with new power; it banishes doubt and despair
as sunrise banishes darkness. He no more wants arguments now to prove God’s
existence than the artist wants arguments to I prove the reality of
beauty, or the lover does to prove the worth of love . . . such experiences
minister to life, construct personality, and conduce to the increased power of
the race—energy to live„by actually does come to them from somewhere2.”
We shall see in a later chapter that no less a philosopher than William James
offered this same argument in support of the hypothesis that super-human powers
intervene in ecstatic trance.
Nevertheless, we will venture the
affirmation that a line of demarcation between influxes of moral energy
which are from God, and those which have an ordinary, natural origin,
has* never been satisfactorily drawn. It would be uselesFto seek
such a separation on the ground of the quality or of the persistence of the
accrued energy. Regarding persistence of energy, it is well known that the
ordinary worshipper, as also the great mystics, must return to God periodically
to replenish energies scattered under the assault of the evil tendencies that
are within or without him. As to quality, that
1
See the Xlth Chapter of A Psychological Study of Religion.
2
Rufus Jones, Studies in Mystical Religion, preface, pp.
xxix-xxx.
One of Pratt’s correspondents remarks
in a similar manner: "Under great spiritual uplift I have stopped and
asked, is it possible that this intense feeling, this spiritual joy, is
subjective ? But I could not believe it possible to exteriorize the peculiar
experience without a divine presence.”—James B. Pratt, loc. cit., p.
348.
Numerous instances of this conviction,
similarly produced, have been provided earlier in this book. In a thesis (Henri
Suzo, Essai de Psychologic Descriptive, Geneve, 1908), which probably
reflects the teaching of the theological seminary of Montauban, Georges
Barlement exclaims: “We declare them to be divine (the mystical phenomena) when
they impose themselves upon us with the kind of superior authority we are
compelled to call divine, when they uphold the individual and increase the
power of action.” depends
upon the purpose of the man himself. A glass of wine may exalt the, exalted
and debase the base. Accretion of strength from any
spurce, be it a mutton-chop or the stimulation of the selfaffirmation or of
the sex-instincts, may, according to the dominant tendencies of the person, be
directed,to noble. ouignoble ends.
The argument that would find, in
sudden intellectual and moral exaltation, a proof of the action of a
God-Providence ’ should be considered in connexion with facts already
sufficiently set forth in this book and with others that are or might be
familiar to everyone. In the chapter on drug-mysticism we saw how, in the very
infancy of the race, men learned by means of narcotics to secure a
sudden increase of well-being, of hope, of happiness ; and how they returned
thanks.to the gods for those blessings. In subsequent chapters we learned how,
finding it necessary to relinquish the drug-method, men discovered other means
of procuring that which drugs had given them. With regard to narcotics, it will
be sufficient here to repeat that if certain drugs are considered divine, it is
largely because of the impression of liberation, of power, and of happiness
which they bring. In Braves Gens, Richepin, that keen observer of human
nature, speaks of occasional drunken bouts as “ good baths of forgetfulness
out of which one arises done up (moulu) and yet renewed (retrempe) ; a
great purge of alcohol which scours, as with fire, body and. soul'.”
Neither drugs nor
mystical experiences are necessary in order to purge the soul of at least a
part of its burdens. A young man told us how on a certain occasion he had been
obsessed and made miserable by sex-desires and how, much to his surprise, he
found himself free from the temptation on leaving a theatre where he had been
deeply moved. The setting-up of nervous activity in other channels had
side-tracked or drained off the sex-impulse. In a comparable way, cupping relieves
a congested region of the body by drawing the blood where it does no harm. -
Fear of the trivial should not induce
one to avoid, in this connexion, the mention of coffee, of tea, of a hot bath,
and of other commonplace means of physical and moral refreshment. Nothing is
trivial which alters so radically, mood and outlook as a cup of tea sometimes
does. There are neuropathic persons who describe their transformation after a
cup of tea in terms which fall little short of those fittingly used to characterize
the effects of a religious ecstasy. A hot bath improves not only the general
well-being but also the moral
1
Jean Richepin, Braves Gens, Select Collection, Flammarion,
p. 24.
On the moral effects of alcohol, see
G. E. Partridge, Studies in the Psychology of Intemperance, New York,
1912.
attitude : restlessness, mental
dispersion, irritability, malevolence, pessimism, may vanish and be replaced by
peace, mental unification, benevolence, optimism. These changes follow upon the
removal of a mass of unpleasant sensations—some of them from the skin, others
from contractions and tensions in the external muscles and in the viscera.
There can be no peace,, no contentment, no generosity, while one is~submitted
to a hundred and one pin-pricks.
Simple (non-mystical) trance or
healthy sleep may work like an effective hot bath. The mystical trance itself
often ends in a peaceful, sleep-like state from which the mystic awakens as he
might from an ordinary sleep, physically and morally refreshed.
Persons subject to more or less
periodic fits of anger feel, in the intervals, as if causes of anger were
accumulating. They become increasingly restless, cantankerous, and generally
intolerable, until the fit breaks out and they are relieved ; then, life is
resumed in peace and hopefulness. It is customary in this last class of
experience to ascribe the beneficial results to a belief that " justice
has been done, judgment executed, the truth spoken, the basis for new and
better understanding laid, etc.*” These and similar ideas doubtless exert a
considerable influence, but they are not the primary cause of the happy mental
change. In their absence the person would still enjoy some relief ; his
feelings and his moral disposition would still be improved. We do not know what
it is that accumulates in the interval between the fits, but here, just as in
the case of the restless, discontented condition from which a person might be
relieved by a hot bath, the fit of anger removes the primary cause of the
abnormal condition.
A similar remark may be made in
connexion with a class of facts illustrated by one of Morton Prince’s patients,
who, on coming out of the hypnotic sleep, exclaimed : “ Something has happened
to me. I have a new point of view. I don’t know what has changed me all at
once; it is as if scales had fallen from my eyes ; I see things differently. .
. . You have given me life and you have given me something to fill it with2.”
Credit for the changed outlook upon life and the return of happiness might be
due to suggestions made by the hypnotizer. We must hold, however, that even in
the absence of any suggestion a trance may work physiological changes
which bring about the impression and the moral attitude described by Prince’s
1
G. S. Hall, A Study of Anger, Amer. Jr. of Psychol., vol.
X, 1899, p. 572.
2
The Unconscious, Jr. of Abnor. Psychol., 1909. For instances of increased, enlarged life, see also “The
Dissociation of a Personality,” chap. XXI, pp. 334, ff., and Appendix L and
R.—especially the latter part of R. Also, Boris Sidis, Studies in
Psychopathology, pp. 62-6.
patient. In support of this
affirmation we refer to the instances already given where suggestion in any
form is out of the question.
The role of love, in which organic and
psychical factors combine to vivify and transform one’s outlook upon life,
should be recalled in this connexion. The reader will remember the instances of
Nadia, of the University teacher, and in particular of Madame Guyon1.
In the different classes of experience
to which we have now referred, sources of energy are liberated, either by the
removal of disturbing, inhibitory factors of trivial origin, or in connexion
with the stimulation of the self-affirmation or of the sex-instincts, or yet
otherwise. This energy, for a while at least, lifts man up above his usual
level of courage, optimism, benevolence and happiness. In some of these
experiences the vivification has no psychical cause. In others, mental causes
are obviously present, but even then physiological forces,—those forces that achieve
the purging in alcohol drunkenness, in irrational fits of anger, in a hot bath,
etc.—frequently play a role whose magnitude is rarely suspected.
In the Christian mystical experiences
the mental factors enhancing life are aroused mainly by the belief in the
intervention of divine beings: God, Christ, the Holy Virgin, the Saints. We
have endeavoured to show in another chapter how these experiences gain vastly
in significance and in value through that belief, quite independently of its
objective validity.
There remain to be considered certain
phenomena particularly potent in the production of the impression of ineffable
revelation.
* * *
Other roots of the conviction of
ineffable revelation.—The real
solution by so-called “ inspiration ” of definite problems has already engaged
our attention. We are now concerned with a very different phenomenon,
abundantly illustrated in the preceding pages and singularly interesting both
to the psychologist and to the theologian, namely the assurance of ineffable
revelation. Jonathan Edwards, whom we have already quoted in connexion with
photism, provides a remarkable instance of an anguishing question which
suddenly lost its power to disturb, as if by the discovery of a solution
formulable in conceptual terms.
“ From my childhood up,” wrote
Edwards, “ my mind was full of objections against the doctrine of God’s
Sovereignty, in choosing whom He would to eternal life, and rejecting whom He
pleased ; leaving them eternally to perish and be everlastingly tormented in
1
See in Janet’s Medications Psychologiques, vol. Ill, p.
168, interesting information regarding the sthenic effect upon neurasthenic or
psychasthenic persons of marriage engagement and of love.
hell. It used to appear like a
horrible doctrine to me. But I remember the time very well when I seemed to be
convinced and fully satisfied as to this Sovereignty of God, and His justice in
thus eternally disposing of men, according to His Sovereign pleasure. But I
never could give an account how, or by what means, I was thus convinced, not in
the least imagining at the time, nor a long time after, that there was any
extraordinary influence of God’s Spirit in it1.”
Here is a second illustration of the
same phenomenon: A theological student had heard a paper on the authorship of
the Gospel of John, in which the writer had come to the conclusion that St John
was not the author of the Gospel bearing his name. This information set loose a
storm in the student: “For three days the wild tide swept and surged past and
around me. I felt I must give up the Gospel of John and, if so, my Christian
faith also ; and with this the universe would go. . . . I yielded myself to
what I conceived to be Higher Guidance. ... At the close of the period I found
myself at one with all things, Peace, that was all. . . . When I looked at
myself, I found that I was standing on the old ground, but cherishing a
toleration of doubt and a sincere sympathy with doubters such as I had never
known before. I could take the logical standpoint, and could see that they (the
arguments) were quite convincing, and yet my inward peace of belief was in no
way disturbed2.”
One could not be more categorical: the
logical arguments that had prevented belief remain unweakened, and yet they now
leave him indifferent. As for Edwards, although he knew of no logical reason
for the change, he found himself accepting a doctrine which until then had
seemed abhorrent. Later, he concluded that it was the effect of an
extraordinary action of God’s spirit3.
2
The Conversion of President Jonathan Edwards.
3
Privately communicated.
, 3 A similar
experience happened to a prominent Ritschlian theologian :
" I came into the presence of the
traditions of the Church. These seemed strange. They belonged to a past age. I
found a protest arising within myself at the very thought of believing the
supernatural account of things. Then, something happened. The words which had
been said to me were transformed into living power ; their complexity was
changed to simplicity. I did not bring this about myself, and no man was the
cause of it. The will of God in His omnipotence penetrated into my heart.”—R.
Seeberg, Zur Systematischen Theologie, as quoted by G. B. Smith, in Amer.
Jr. oj Theology, 1909, p. 96.
Cardinal Newman was familiar with and
welcomed these irrational convictions : “ I have never been able to see a
connexion between apprehending those difficulties (of the Christian Doctrines),
however keenly, and multiplying them to any extent, and on the other hand
doubting the doctrines to which they are attached.” Apologia, new ed.,
1904, p. 148.
Amazing as these facts may seem, they
are in their essence commonplace enough. Have we not all, at times, noticed in
ourselves a difficulty or an inability to be rational ? This disquieting
phenomenon is particularly in evidence when desires are intense and emotions
run high. It then becomes impossible to ascribe to arguments contrary to our
desires the weight belonging to them ; they may even be completely disregarded.
Why should it be otherwise ? The mere recognition of logical consistency has no
efficacy ; abstract truth has in itself_no driving power. It
derives''1 whatever influence it exerts from its_agreement
with desires. Truth C 'J, ' is powerful in the measure in which it
agrees with things loved, or"? disagrees with things hated. It may possess
the power of habit but the habit of being swayed by truth has itself become
established in society because of a more or less clear perception of the
relation of truth to the ultimate realization of desire.
The experiences of Edwards and of the
theological student are striking examples of the ordinary action of
overpowering desires and attraction. Both these men had just passed through a
conversion crisis. The photisms experienced by Edwards indicate how profound
the physiological disturbance had been. Both ascribed the event to God and
interpreted it as a loving manifestation of his Power. They felt themselves as
clay in the hands of the Divine Potter, his to use as he pleased. Under these
circumstances, it was not possible for arguments against the Almighty and his
Revelation in the Bible to obtain a fair hearing. Loye and criticism are in the
main incompatible ; and when the object of one’s devotion is the Creator of
heaven and earth, actually made present to one’s heart and mind in a wonderful
experience, what logic may urge against his existence or his Revelation ceases
to matter. The logic of the argument against hell-torments or against the
Johannine authorship of the fourth Gospel may still be recognized as good
logic, but the tendencies or desires it would antagonize are now too strong :
the truth can no longer arouse fear or apprehension. “ The inward peace of
belief is,” as the student says, “ in no way disturbed.”
But disregard of logical truth and
assurance in that which they wished to believe had, in these instances, still
another origin. God had been made present to these persons in a wonderful way ;
they had “felt” him just as convincingly as if they had touched him. This
particular “ sense of presence ” will form the subject of special
consideration. At this point we shall simply remark that after an experience
such as theirs, while one may continue to recognize the truth of an argument
proving that God does not exist and while one may even wish that he should not
exist, conviction of his existence cannot be shaken, for one is now in the
presence not merely of an abstract argument but of what seems a concrete,
perceived reality : God has been experienced. The only thing that could have
destroyed the conviction of Edwards and of the student would have been an
adequate appreciation of the existence of causes able to produce an illusory “
sense of presence,” and of the inhibiting influence of intense desire upon
antagonistic logical arguments.
The term " revelation ” is almost
aptly used when applied to the experience we have described, for in it an
intimacy, a sympathy, an understanding, are established between God and
the worshipper. Now he sees his way, he knows what to do. When one sees or
knows, without having gone through the cogitations that ordinarily precede
knowledge, how is one to avoid believing in a superhuman illumination ? The
alterations of conduct and the transformations of character which, at times,
follow upon crises such as those just reported, may also be spoken of, without
greater looseness in the use of words than is generally permitted, as the
outcome of a revelation.
The case of Mrs. Pa., already
reported, is similar to the preceding. On a beautiful spring morning, she
awakened from a restful sleep and recalled Drummond’s words about the presence
of God in all things. That idea came to her with a new, marvellous meaning; she
saw or felt the divine Presence all about her. Her own self and the universe
were transformed : faith and courage replaced, discouragement and pessimism.
We have found reason to ascribe this illumination in large part to a
non-rational process such as that which took place in Janet’s patient when she
saw everything transformed—a process not very different from love at first
sight.
Photism particularly tempts one to the
use of the term “ illumination.” Does not the world appear illumined ? Do not
things stand, as it were, revealed in an unwonted light ? And yet, nothing is
given in a conceptual form ; the revelation is ineffable.
* * *
There remains at least one other
important root of the belief in unutterable divine revelation, quite different
from those so far considered. It has already come to light in many of the
descriptive passages of this book. Trance frequently generates feelings and
emotions described as " exalted,” ” grand,” " stupendous,” and the
like. We recall the " sensations sublimes et solennelles ” of
certain neurasthenics, as well as of normal persons, when in the presence of
fairly commonplace scenery. Of his experience with nitrous oxide gas, Sir
Humphrey Davy says : ” My emotions were enthusiastic and sublime1.”
This effect has been observed by many not only with nitrous oxide, but with
other narcotic drugs, notably with opium by de Quincey.
Similar feelings and emotions are not
of very rare occurrence in the dreams of ordinary sleep. Masefield writes of a
dream: “ Words in it had seemed revelations, acts in it, adventures, romances;
but judged by the waking mind, it was unintelligible, though holy like a mass
in an unknown tongue .” Words to the same purport are used by scientific experimenters
to describe their impressions during the drowsy state which precedes sleep.
Careful observations of the drowsiness
preceding ordinary sleep have not been numerous or very thorough, but, such as
they are, they indicate that the normal near-sleep condition involves the
production of mental alterations similar to those characteristic of the early
stage of abnormal and artificial trances. Imagination, relieved of the shackles
imposed upon it by perception and by logical requirements, weaves, under the
spur of external and internal impressions and of desire, fantastic pictures and
non-logical trains of thought. The relative freedom of the mind from external
direction and from rational guidance, favours the production of impressions of
weird " otherness,” and of " feelings of exuberance, buoyancy, confidence,
and eager enthusiasm.” In many instances “ when a chain of reasoning is
involved, all projects are [seem] fertile and all outcome expansive . . . The
drowsiness experienced in the case of the present observers at least,
resembles that following upon the inhalation of diluted nitrous oxide gas, ‘
the mental symptoms consist in convictions of emancipation, relief, and happiness,
in grand and sublime ideas which in their expansion seem to break down all
barriers of doubt and difficulty ’.”
Even a conviction of revelation may
appear in ordinary drowsiness. In Le Subconscient Normal, Abramowski,
speaking of his own observations before sleep, says : “ In that state one gets
at a certain juncture the impression that something important has happened ;
one wakes up and feels very distinctly that a thought has taken place (une
pensee vient de s’accomplif). That thought seems usually of great value and
of a special interest: at times it seems almost a revelation. When I endeavour
to get hold of that thought,
I discover that I know nothing about
it; I find it impossible to put it down in words, even fragmentarily ; and, at
the same time, I still feel an affective trace, very distinct, of its passage1.”
If we seek to understand that which
takes place in a simple partial trance produced by the repetition of a name, we
find that the word soon ceases to bring up any of the ideas, images, or other
references to which it owes its meaning. Dissociations have set in, and the
mind remains on the sign, i.e., on the visual appearance of the letters,
instead of passing to the things signified. Consequently, the word appears as
an unfamiliar thing ; it is no longer apprehended, it has become meaningless ;
or rather, we should say that it has acquired a new, weird, puzzling,
not-to-be-formulated feelingsignificance
.
But why should the feeling or emotion
suggest in this case that something “ important,” “ of great value,” has taken
place and, in other instances, that there has been a wonderful discovery, an “
ineffable revelation ” ? Before proceeding further, we are to observe that a
feeling or an emotion cannot in its own right be great, noble, or sublime. The
emotions that come to be called “ great ” or “ noble ” are those arising
normally in connexion with great or noble purposes or achievements.
The cause of noble or great emotion
which first suggests itself, and the only one which may seem possible to the
unsophisticated in matter psychological, is that, somehow or other, they are
the accompaniment of great or noble achievements, thought of or actually
realized, even though it should be impossible to tell what the achievements
are. There are, however, other possibilities :
i. Feelings and emotions may take
place without any mental cause, i.e., may result from a purely
physiological activity. We have already had occasion to record certain
remarkable affective and emotional conseqences of brain-storms. There are
prodromes of epilepsy which include “ sublime ” emotional states ; and there
are other conditions, such as that of morbid anxiety, of pathological anger,
etc., which are marked by emotions of a definite quality— this quite
independently of any intellectual cause. There exists,
1
Edouard Abramowski, Le Subconscient Normal, Paris, 1914, p.
201. Comp. Tennyson’s trance induced by repeating his name.
however, much more commonplace
illustrations of this phenomenon. A person who has dined well does not
owe his good-nature and magnanimity, his increased self-confidence and optimism,
tQ.. new knowledge or understanding. Alcohol and food produce these
effects directly through their action upon the body. Music also may determine,
directly, fairly well characterized emotional states.
2.
Great or noble emotions may have as primary cause mere alterations
of sensibility which are interpreted as signifying something great or
noble. We have, for instance, been led to regard certain sensory perturbations
as responsible for the impression of levitation. When that impression leads to
the thought of the independence of the spirit from the body and to the various
sacred beliefs commonly connected with that conception, noble and sublime
emotions will be generated. Similarly, as in the instance of Jonathan Edwards,
photisms suggest “ God’s excellency, His wisdom, His purity and love.” The
interpretation of any or of all the phenomena of ecstatic trance as divine
manifestations, is obviously, among the religious mystics, the more general
cause of the production of “ exalted ” emotions.
Emotions generated in this manner do
not indicate the production during the trance of any remarkable understanding
or revelatory conception, or any other stupendous achievement. They result from
disordered sensibility interpreted in a naive manner general among the
non-civilized and civilized.
3.
The primary cause of the kind of emotion with which we are
concerned might actually be great or noble deeds, purposes, or thoughts ; for
instance, the comprehension of mysteries beyond the grasp of the unaided human
mind, or the disclosure of some divine purpose regarding the subject himself.
The inability of the experiencer to clothe in conceptual form the achievement
claimed by him would be no sufficient reason for disbelieving him. For it is
well known that on awakening from ether-sleep or artificial trance nothing at
all may remain in consciousness of a mental activity that has actually taken
place. In other instances nothing persists after awakening except an emotional
condition and dominant tendencies.
It happens, for instance, that we wake
up from an ordinary sleep shaken by a more or less definite affective
disturbance, the cause of which escapes us. Presently, however, we recall a
dream which, because of its nature, we take as the undoubted cause of the
lingering emotion. Proof of the dissociation of an emotion from its conceptual
cause or object may be given experimentally. If a scene charged with emotional
significance be described to a hypnotized person and the suggestion made that
on awakening he will not remember the scene,
270
PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM the subject, on coming to himself, may feel
the emotion although its cause cannot be recalled.
In his protracted study of Miss
Beauchamp, Morton Prince has more than once had occasion to observe the
survival of feelings and emotions when the ideas which had called them forth
had disappeared. Once, on awakening from an ecstasy in a church, Miss Beauchamp
found herself in the enjoyment of feelings of “ lightness of body, of physical
restfulness, and well-being, besides those of exaltation, joyousness and
peace.” Morton Prince was able to ascertain that these feelings and emotions
were not due to any mysterious subconscious incubation and maturation of
motives, " it was simply that the emotions of the trance-state persisted
after waking as a state of exaltation1,”
The persistence of feelings and
emotions, after their causes have been partly or entirely forgotten, is a
frequent phenomenon of everyday life. Tom, a talkative imbecile, will tell you
with great enthusiasm that he has had a perfectly splendid dinner ; but if you
ask him what he has eaten, he becomes speechless
. The pleasant feeling is
still there or is reawakened by the mention of dinner, but he is unable to think
of anything that was on the table. It is not necessary to be mentally deficient
in order to find oneself in Tom’s predicament. Psychology has set it down that
emotions not only may continue but also probably may reappear in consciousness
after an interruption, without being accompanied by the intellectual contents
with which they originally came into consciousness. The Freudian and the
medical literature dealing with war-neuroses contains numerous and striking
illustrations of this fact.
* * *
We are now prepared to return to the
problem as it appears to the religious mystics. They affirm that, even though
they cannot formulate it adequately, divine knowledge comes to them during the
ecstasies and determines the emotional and volitional changes of which they are
aware on returning to their senses. That belief in an ineffable intellectual
revelation cannot be accepted unless its truth be demonstrated by something
more objective than the mystic’s own conviction, for we have just found out
that the trance-experience is rich in phenomena able to produce the illusion of
transcendent revelation.
1 Morton Prince, The Dissociation of Personality, Longmans,
Green and Co., 1913, p. 352. For a full understanding of this illustration, see
the whole chapter. It may be remarked that the feelings and emotions named
above might have been produced easily enough, in a person of changeable moods,
as the direct consequence of a restful trance.
Since the alleged revelation cannot be
adequately expressed verbally, and since mere assurance is no proof of truth,
the one remaining basis of proof is the behaviour of the subject after the
revelation. He might be so altered in character and temperament as to compel
the admission of superhuman action. But nothing that has happened to the
mystics with whom we are acquainted goes beyond alterations and transformations
referable to known natural causes, physical and psychical. In this connexion,
the influence of belief in divine intervention must not be overlooked.
The scope of this factor has been sufficiently indicated in the preceding
pages.
Scepticism as to revelation grows into
complete disbelief when we learn that under conditions realized in dhe ecstatic
trance (whether artificial or not) insignificant and even absurd ideas may take
on the appearance of intellectual greatness. The setting forth of that
fact will constitute the final part of our demonstration of the illusory nature
of the impression of intellectual revelation in mystical trance.
Jacobson, who intended to make
whatever observations he might while under nitrous oxide gas, exclaimed,
according to the record made at the time : “I have made a discovery ; I have
made a discovery I The secondary consciousness . . .” Here is his own statement
made after return to normal consciousness : “ It seemed as if I had said, ‘ the
secondary consciousness is the primary consciousness,’ and I intended to go on
and say that the same I was present in both, . . . but I ceased, owing
to the difficulty of putting the matter into words and owing to the lack of
strength.” The persons present stated that he had stopped after saying “ the
secondary consciousness.” He had apparently, at the time or subsequently,
merely thought the rest. He was furthermore under the impression that, as he
was observing the dwindling away of consciousness, this thought had been in his
mind : “ Your personality must be psychological at its core, if you think of
such things at this moment1.” Now the persistency of the idea of the
self, when the external world and even Jhe body have disappeared or are on the
point of vanishing, has no transcendent significance; and the thought that
personality must be psychological at its core is, under the circumstances,
commonplace enough not to deserve any attention. And yet, while under nitrous
oxide, Jacobson thought that he had made a great discovery.
Sir Humphrey Davy, who reported his
own emotions as “ enthusiastic and sublime,” was also under the impression that
he had made remarkable discoveries : “ I endeavoured, says he, to communicate
the discoveries made during the experiment, but my
1 Edmund Jacobson, Amer. Jr. of Psychol., XXII, i9IT>
335'6.
ideas were feeble and indistinct; one
collection of terms presented itself, and with the most intense belief and
prophetic manner I exclaimed ‘ nothing exists but thought, the universe is
composed of impressions, ideas, pleasures and pains1 This is not
very different from the “ discovery ” made by Jacobsen, by Dunbar2,
and by many another.
In our own experiments with ether and
nitrous oxide three out of four subjects made similar observations. As the loss
of bodily control and of sensations from the body proceeded, one of them had a
“ superior feeling ” that it would astonish people when she should tell them,
later, that “ the will is after all a separate entity.” Two of the subjects
were impressed by the enduring reality of the self in the presence of the
vanishing organism. The last or one of the last thoughts of one of them was
that “ the ego is a definite and indestructible unity.” Professor Hill,
experimenting with chloroform and ether, observed that he never was more
curiously aware of “the one indubitable fact—the consciousness of self-hood3.”
When one considers that there is
probably no idea more central, more deeply implanted in us than that of the
self, and that, in trance, the obfuscation or disappearance of the physical
world and of the body makes the idea of the self stand out by isolating it, the
persistence of the impressions just reported ceases to surprise.
The reader may recall how Symonds, a
disbeliever in divine intervention, was also occupied, in his trances, by the
idea of the self; but it was the wonderful alterations it suffered and the fear
of its extinction which held his attention.
Sir Humphrey Davy makes the
significant remark that, in respect to the persons with whom he experimented,
persons of intellectual training and distinction, “ the thoughts are in nine
cases out of ten connected ..with some great discovery, some supposed
1
As reported by Sir Crichton-Browne, Lancet, loc. cit.
2
Dunbar, in The Light thrown on Psychological Processes by the
Action of Drugs, writes : “ My own experience under ether I shall never
.forget.
In my mind thought seemed to race like
a mill-wheel. Nothing was lost— every trifling phenomenon seemed to fall into
its place as a logical event in the Universe. As in Sir William Ramsey’s
experience, everything seemed so absolute. It was either yes or no. Either this
was reality or it was not . . . If it was not, then it seemed to me in the
nature of things that I could never know reality. Then it dawned upon me that
the only logical position was subjective idealism, and, therefore, my
experience must be reality. Then by degrees I began to realize that I was the
One and the universe of which I was the principle was balancing itself into
completeness. All thought seemed struggling to a logical conclusion; every
trifling movement in the world outside my consciousness represented perfectly
logical steps in the final readjustment.”—Proc. Soc. Psychol. Research,
1905, XIX, pp. 73-4.
3
Of the Loss and Recovery of Consciousness under Ancssthesia,
Psychol. Bull., VII, 1910, p. 79.
sojution_of a cosmic secret,” while in
humdrum people the feelings, though pleasant, are " in no way remarkable.”
He might have added that the alleged discovery relates usually to a problem
with which the person has been concerned. An anaesthetized patient interpreted
the “ peculiar thoughts,” which he endeavoured in vain to formulate, as
containing the explanation of his puzzling malady1. Awake from the “
meaningless ” dream already mentioned, John Masefield, full of unsatisfied
yearnings for the dead Ottalie, " feels that he had apprehended
spiritually the mysterious life beyond ours, and had learned, finally, forever,
that Ottalie’s soul was linked to his soul by bonds forged by powers greater
than his2.”
It is at times possible to observe
somewhat minutely the defective mental processes responsible in trance for
false or inadequate solutions. Among the dreams observed before complete sleep,
Hollingworth reports one of especial interest in this connexion. H., the
observer, was in bed with “ grippe,” tossing from side to back, then to the
other side. His report is as follows : “ As I tossed, the numbers 50, 2, 36,
kept running in my head, appearing clearly visually as 5236, and auditorially
as ‘ fifty-two—thirty-six.’ Now these (50, 2, 36), were the combination numbers
of my gymnasium locker which I opened by turning the knob
left-right-left-right, four turns, very much as I now tossed in bed. In my
tossing the numbers rang and rang in my head, the left side seeming 52, the
right side 36, the back 5236. It seemed that if I could juggle these numbers
into the right combination I could find a comfortable position3.”
In this dream, H. was vaguely aware
that certain numbers and turning movements were involved in the solution of a
problem. But neither the exact nature of the problem (opening a locker), nor
the nature of the necessary turning movements (turning a key in a lock), was
clearly present to his drowsy mind. In the absence of these correct ideas, the
“ felt ” potency of the numbers became connected with the attempt to relieve a
general discomfort by changing the position of the body. The numbers and the
actual problem of finding bodily relief became connected not because of any
logical relation. They were probably related by a common feeling : the
unpleasantness of failing readily to open the box, and now the unpleasantness
of failing to find ease of body. A fully awake mind would have rejected that
thought as irrelevant.
If, in this instance, the conviction
of a solution was not formed, it was probably because the discomfort continued
until the dreamer woke up entirely or fell asleep completely. Had a solution
come, it would probably not have been accompanied by a sense of sublimity, for
there was nothing in the problem itself that could have suggested, even to an
uncritical mind, a great achievement ; the weird, mysterious feelings commonly
present in trances produced by narcotics were apparently lacking.
* * *
The causes of the impression of
mystical revelation may be partly summarized as follows : In the condition of
diminished and degraded mental activity characteristic of trance, certain
sensations, or the disappearance of certain sensations, certain feelings and
certain emotions—which in certain instances have a purely physiological
origin—may give rise to the thought of a great achievement.
1
Of the Loss and Recovery of Consciousness under Anesthesia,
Psychol. Bull., VII, 1910, p. 79.
2
Multitude and Solitude, p. 51.
3
The Psychology of Drowsiness, Amer. Jr. of Psychol., XXII, 1911, p. 102.
We refer in particular to the feelings
of “ extension,” of “ inflation,” and of “ enlargement,” mentioned by some
observers, the hyperesthesias best illustrated by photism, the loss of skin
and of other sensations resulting in the impression of levitation, and certain
emotional experiences called “ emotions of greatness,” “ of sublimity,” and the
like.
These sensations, feelings and
emotions may, and at times do, suggest ideas of things exalted or marvellous,
as in the case of the idea of levitation; or they may give rise to the idea
that great problems have received a solution. Regarding this last occurrence
two things may happen : (i) A great problem is present to the mind but is not
solved. Nevertheless the feelings and emotions determined by the problem
itself, or present independently of the problem, are taken by the disorganized mind
as signifying the adequate solution of the problem. (2) A solution is actually
found acceptable to the entranced, but it is discovered by the fully awake mind
to be woefully inadequate. It proves to be a solution such as come to all in
the dreams of sleep, or in any other trance-state.
Of an adequate solution of a great
problem, forgotten on awakening, no satisfactory evidence has come to our
knowledge.
The conviction is, therefore, forced
upon us that we are here in the presence of one of the most widespread,
tenacious, and potent of the many illusions to which man is subject.
* * *
The. clearness and certainty of
ineffable revelation.—The
attention of the reader has probably been caught by the insistency with which
the terms clearness and certainty recur in connexion with
ineffable trance revelation. There is something puzzling in the connexion of
unusual clearness with something baffling expression. It will be useful to
preface the brief remarks we wish to make on this subject by bringing together
a few of the illustrations scattered throughout this book.
During a nitrous oxide trance Sir
Humphrey Davy attempted to communicate a discovery he thought he had made : “
One collection of terms,” he wrote, “ presented itself, and with the most
intense belief and prophetic manner, I explained that nothing exists but
thought.”
In our own experiments with ether, one
of the subjects reported her discovery thus : “ With perfect lucidity
the thought came to me that the anti-introspectionists (the behaviourists) had
never seen things as I was seeing them now. ... It was so plain, I could
examine minutely thoughts passing in review before me, etc.”
Dr Weir Mitchell, after taking mescal,
had “ a certain sense ” of the things about him as “ having a more positive
existence than usual1 ” ; and Hollingworth in his description of
drowsiness states that in the drowsy state, as in dream-life, images seem to exceed
by far in intensity the clearest images of the waking state.” Tennyson, in
trances induced by repeating his own name, felt that “ the individuality itself
seemed to dissolve and fade into boundless being, and this not a confused
state, but the clearest of the clearest, the surest of the surest . . .
utterly beyond words.” Lowell ‘‘inspired,” late one evening, ‘‘spoke with the
calmness and clearness of a prophet.” Nevertheless, his philosophical
constructions never saw the light of day. Madeleine understood with absolute
clearness and certainty a variety of mysteries among them those of the
Trinity and of the Immaculate Conception
.
If in these descriptions the term “
clearness ” is used as involving exact, detailed, and complete perception or
understanding, we would say that it is misused. .In trance, the impression of
exactness and fullness of perception or understanding is usually an illusion.
The best observers among the Christian mystics have noticed this, even though
they have not been able to understand its full significance. Santa Theresa
discovered with surprise that she could not gratify the desire of her friends
who wished to know the colour of the eyes of Christ. All her efforts to see
served merely “ to cause the vision to disappear.” She made a similar
observation on the occasion of a brilliant vision of the Virgin : “ I was not
able to note anything particular in the face of the Holy Virgin ; I saw merely
in general that it was admirably beautiful
.”
The same thing is true of the visions
of the pre-sleep state. Bernard Leroy reports this interesting observation : “
When I was studying anatomy, I was fairly frequently subject to an hypnagogic
hallucination familiar, I believe, to medical students. While in my bed, the
eyes closed, I would see, with great definiteness and a perfect sense of
objectivity, the anatomical preparation with which I had been occupied during
the day : the likeness was exact, the impression of reality and, if I may
express myself thus, of intense life which emanated from it, was perhaps more
intense than if I had been in the presence of a real object. It seemed to me
also that all the details, each artery, vein, muscle insertion, all the various
features which during waking life I had so much trouble to remember and to
recall visually, were there before my eyes. . . . This hallucination
having taken place many times, I was
able to come to a definite opinion about it. Already at the second or third
repetition, I gained the certainty that the abundance of details, the wealth of
the vision, was merely an illusion. Despite the first impression, the
hallucination included much less details than do the voluntary recalled images
of the waking life .”
This illusion of completeness of
detail—usually called clearness —takes place not only in the mental life of
trance but also, in certain persons at least, in the ordinary waking life.
There are persons who think that the recall of what they have seen is as clear
as their actual perceptions. And yet, if such a person be requested, for
instance, to describe in detail his mental picture of a building, or merely to
count the windows in it, he will usually find the task impossible.
The peculiar clearness of the
conceptions or perceptions in trance depends not upon fulness of detail but
upon simplicity, isolation, and intensity. The simpler and the more isolated a
thing is, the more clearly it is seen. Great intensity of stimulus is not
necessary to clear perception ; yet, up to a maximal limit, increased intensity
produces increased clearness.
The first two of these conditions of
clearness, and often also the third, are in trance realized in an unusual
measure. The reduction and degradation of the mental life simplifies and
isolates the objects of thought; and the benumbing of the higher (the “
intellectual ”) centres, tends probably, at a certain stage of the trance, to
increase the intensity of the sensational and affective processes.
Regarding the dependence of certainty
upon clearness, it is to be said that clearness is not the only condition of
certainty : a proposition that is or seems perfectly clear may be or seem
contradicted by another equally clear. Yet clearness makes for assurance, and
it is no doubt because of this relation that these two terms are so frequently
found together in the affirmations of the mystics.
The conditions of clearness set forth
above are also conditions of assurance. Mental simplification, by eliminating
contradictions or complexities that might be the occasion of doubt, tends to
produce assurance as to what remains in consciousness. With only one simple
idea in mind, uncertainty about it would betoken a pathological condition. But
the downrightness, the cocksureness, of certain drug-intoxications, of alcohol1
for instance, is not due to a mental simplification only ; it is in part the
outcome of an increased intensity of the motor excitation : the “ will ” to act
involves the “ will ” to believe.
The preceding considerations lead, it
seems, to this proposition : the clearness and certainty of that which is
experienced in trancestates bear no unequivocal relation to truth or objective
reality. Mystical assurances of clearness and certainty need not weigh heavily
upon us ; that to which these impressions are attached is to be regarded as
true only in so far as experimentally verified or in so far as in agreement
with established knowledge .
* * *
The Hypothesis of a higher
intelligence in trance.—One of
the important generalizations which forces itself upon us is that narcotic
trance, suggestion trance and disease trance, and sleep are similar in that
they involve a limitation and a degradation of the mental life.
The lower intellectual processes are
affected first. When the perception both of the outer world and of the body has
ceased, ideas may still be present and may even possess a striking clearness.
They vary with the circumstances and reflect dominant preoccupations or
concerns. They may be about lofty subjects, such as the soul, its independence
from the body, its immortality, God, etc. But whenever the thinking itself can
be observed, it proves to be of. a simplified, rudimentary sort; it proceeds in
its inferences and conclusions upon data surprisingly incomplete and distorted.
This impoverishment increases with increase in depth of the trance, and finally
thinking and feeling may end in total unconsciousness.
In one of his sermons the mystic
Tauler spoke thus : “ Unto this house (his innermost soul) must man now go, and
completely desist from and abandon his sensations and all sensible things, such
as are brought into the soul and perceived by the senses and the imagination.
And he must also put away all ideas and forms, even the conceptions of reason,
and all activity of his own reason1.” And Santa Theresa, the
favourite guide of most Roman Catholic writers on mysticism, says : “ If you
ask me how it is possible that with all our powers and all our senses so much
suspended that they are as dead, we nevertheless hear and understand something,
I answer that that is a secret understood perhaps by no creature2.”
Further confirmation of this feature of trance has been provided in the
biographies and in the chapter on Methods.
Nevertheless, the mystics hold that in
the ecstatic trance the mind attains to a divine intellectual activity, and
they speak of an “ illumination of the understanding.” They believe that an
intelligence of a higher sort miraculously takes the place of the ordinary, or
they say with Poulain that “ full plenitude of the understanding is retained
during rapture,” or even that “ during true ecstasy the intellectual faculty
grows in a surprising way .” This
1
Tauler, as quoted by Hocking in The Meaning of God in Human
Experience, P- 373-
2
Inner Castle, Sixth
Dwelling IV, 431-2. Comp, this with the amusing passage quoted on p. 166 of
this book. See also Life, XII, 135 ; XVIII, 199 ; etc.
In a paper on Mescal which has just
come to our notice, S. W. Fernberger reports that he attempted to test a “
notable ” impression of increased ability, only to become convinced of the
reverse.—Observations on Taking Peyote, Amer. Jr. of Psychol., XXXIV,
1923, p. 270.
Elmer Jones states {Psychol. Rev.,
XVI, p. 52) that, in the early stages of chloroform intoxication, “ the deeper
conscious states are perfectly normal . . memory is not impaired.” If this is
true at all, it holds only for the very lightest degrees of trance. Comp, the
experiments with alcohol in Chapter VII of this book.
is hardly surprising since the mystics
assume that the impressions of loftiness, of sublimity, of revelation, recalled
when they return to full consciousness, signify the presence during the trance
of a revelatory intellectual content1.
Recent psychological students of
mysticism, much impressed by the conviction of enlightenment and unable to
interpret it as an illusion, have called to their assistance the conception of
a sub or co-consciousness. They have said: “ But the higher mystical flights,
with their positiveness and abruptness, are surely products of no such merely
negative condition. It seems far more reasonable to ascribe them to inroads from
the subconscious life, of the cerebral activity correlative to which we as yet
know nothing .'’ This opinion expressed by William James is also the one
preferred by Flournoy3. It is fair to add that the latter embraced
it without much satisfaction as the more probable of the theories available to
him.
The necessity for the supposition of
an exalted intelligence replacing the vanishing natural intelligence, or of an
influence from a sub-consciousness, vanishes as soon as the impression of
revelation can be explained as an illusion.
THE SENSE OF INVISIBLE PRESENCE AND DIVINE
GUIDANCE
“ It is curious to speculate on the
feelings of a dog who will rest peacefully for hours in a room with his master
or any of the family, without the least notice being taken of him ; but, if
left for a short time by himself, barks or howls dismally.”—Darwin, Descent
of Man, 2nd ed., p. 153.
Ecstatic trance, as realized in religion, attains the substantial ends of
worship by what is, in theory at least, the most perfect of means, namely, the
intimate companionship or union with an omnipotent, righteous and loving Being.
We have already had the opportunity of remarking that to love, and to be loved
by, a good and all-powerful Person is the most effective way to vivify the
human heart and to fulfil its essential yearnings. In that relationship the
mptiyes^of. Christian mysticism—which are no_ other than those of human
life in general—come to free expression. The tendencies to self-affirmation,
the needs for self-esteem, for affection, for moral perfection, for peace, and
even for sensuous enjoyment find in an intimate companionship with divine
Beings—God, Christ, the Virgin Mary or other saints—a complete satisfaction.
It has, of course, not been left to
the Christian mystics to discover the satisfyingness of companionship with
gods. The beautiful Hebrew psalm, “ The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,” etc., is an earlier expression of
that discovery.
When belief in personal divinities has
disappeared, there remains the craving for belief in a community of nature
between us and the Universe. Man cannot abide the thought of utter isolation ;
he will not live in an altogether alien World ; there must be some sort of
kinship between him and the forces of the Universe. One might speak of that
affinity as a cosmic gregariousness.
The distinction of the mystics is to
have found and practiced a way of realizing the divine Presence with as much,
nay with more,~ intensity than if actually present to jthe
external senses. "The definition of mysticism as the direct,
experiential realization of God is incomplete but not false. Quakerism, for
instance, the more important of the modern mystical movements, is said to have
been
“ first of all the proclamation of an
experience. The movement came to birth, and received its original power,
through persons who were no less profoundly conscious of a Divine Presence
than they were of a world in space1.”
Of the different categories of alleged
proofs of the existence of a God-Providence, this immediate experience of him
is probably the one which has so far suffered least from the introduction of
science into the sphere of religion. The many instances of divine Presence
contained in Chapter IX have already shown that the experience means much more
than the mere thought of the presence of God. At the moment of the sudden
theophany, M.E. was so violently moved that he could no longer stand ; it was
as if the goodness and power of God were penetrating him. The realization of
God by Mrs Pa. was so “ wonderful ” that for days she went in awe of that
experience. Miss X. relates that the sense of God’s presence came to her with “
overpowering fullness.” She was at a loss to express “ the sense of intimacy,
understanding, and sympathy ” which the Presence gave her. It was so much a
part of her that communion went on without words or even thoughts. She felt “
consolation and strength pouring in ” upon her. Another scientist, a woman
also, in a similar crisis describes the consciousness of the presence of the
Father, of the touch of his Hand, as being as strong and real to her as that of
any bodily presence2. The writings of the classical mystics contain
numerous similar instances. One of the best observed of the many reported by
Santa Theresa, is the following :
“ On the day of St Peter, as I was in
Orison, I saw near me, or rather I felt—for I did not perceive anything either
with the eyes of the body or with the eyes of the soul—I felt Christ near me
and I knew it was He Who was speaking to me. ... It seemed to me that He kept
walking at my side ; and, as it was not a vision of the imagination, I did not
know under what form, . . . but He was always on my right side, I felt him very
clearly3.”
Illustrations of divine Presence4
might be indefinitely multiplied. I shall add but one more. After a Sunday
School class a young man was being prayed for by the Class Leader : ‘‘In the
midst of it there came an overwhelming sense of a Presence infinitely pure and
true and tender, a Presence that broke through all preconceived notions
1
R. Jones, Social Law in the Spiritual World, p. 161.
2
A Scientist’s Confession of Faith, a pamphlet published by the Amer. Baptist Publ. Soc.,
Philad., 1898.
3
Autobiography of Santa
Theresa, XXVIII, p. 84.
* Several will be found in the Varieties
of Religious Experience, 3rd Lecture, in Pratt’s chapters on mysticism and
in an appendix to my Study of Religious Conversion.
and revealed itself to my
consciousness in such beauty and power that after more than twenty-five years
it seems to me the only real thing in my whole life. ... It has been the
strongest influence in my whole life1.”
* * *
It would be an error to suppose that
this conviction of an impressive Presence, more concretely real than what the
eyes see and the hands touch, occurs only in the religious life. It is no more
in itself a religious phenomenon than ecstatic trance. Many are the persons who
have experienced it outside of all religious connexions. From the collection I
have gathered from contemporaries, I shall transcribe two instances :
Miss L. “A young woman was sitting in
the drawing-room of her parents at half after eleven at night, waiting for her
father’s return. Her mother lay on a couch near her, dozing. She herself was
reading a book in which she was utterly absorbed. No one else in the house was awake.
As she read, she was slightly disturbed by the feeling that someone was in the
room in the corner opposite her mother’s couch. She looked up, expecting to see
her father, but saw no one and began reading again. The same sensation came
over her three or four times ; but, since each time she looked up and saw no
one, she continued to read, being very deeply absorbed in her book. But
suddenly she felt someone come over from the comer and cross between herself
and her mother. She felt it so vividly that she even thought she saw something,
but could not say what the something looked like, or describe it in any way.
She was perfectly certain, however, that someone had crossed the room.
Startled, she cried to her mother, ‘ What was that ? ’ Her mother had seen and
felt nothing—but the girl insisted that someone had passed and persuaded her
mother to search the house with her. They searched the house in vain.”
Miss J. “ We had an early dinner as we
were all going to a wedding. I was dressing in my room on the third floor, and
the rest of the family were on the second floor. I could hear them talking, and
I sometimes joined in the conversation, calling down the stairs. Altogether we
were having a most hilarious time. Suddenly, for no reason that I know of, a
sort of terror came over me. The electric
1 Pratt, loc. cit., p. 358.
It is something which happened to
Goethe in his relation with Frau von Stein. He writes to her : “ It is as if
you were transubstantiated into every object. I am very clearly aware of the
various objects and yet I see you in each one of them—my mind is on my work and
yet I am always in your presence, always thinking of you.” From a letter dated
April 9, 1782. lights had not
yet been turned on, and my bedroom, although not dark, was lighted only by the
gaslight from my study and from the hallway. I seemed to feel a ' presence '
and it was in the air, moving quite rapidly about six feet from the floor. I
did not look in that direction, but tried to quiet myself by thinking that such
a thing could not physically hurt me, and that, if it were anything spiritual,
I should be glad to learn what it had to say, and then I turned—of course, to
find nothing. I was still nervous, and went downstairs as soon as I was
dressed.” The writer of this letter adds that, under ordinary circumstances,
she is never afraid in the house.
The realization of Presences such as
these, not having the testimony; of the external senses and yet possessing the
certainty of perception, is of fairly frequent occurrence. It is, moreover, so
far from beyond the reach of scientific investigation that it can easily be
produced under experimental conditions. We have ourselves attempted it
successfully. Each subject, or, as we may call him, each observer, in turn was
seated in a dimly lighted room with his back to the assistants, who sat silent
some twenty-five feet away. His eyes were carefully covered, so as to exclude
all light. He was told that someone might come in and stand near him, back of
the chair, and he was asked to indicate whenever he became aware of a Presence.
At irregular intervals, someone would
approach silently, walking on thick rugs, and stand for a number of seconds
back of the chair of the observer, and then withdraw silently again. In about
half the cases, the subjects did not perceive the approach of the person. In
the other instances, some noise or air movement would indicate to him the
approach, and he would signal his awareness of a presence. This inference was,
however, not confused by the subject with the Sense of Presence. The subjects
were requested to make careful introspective observations of their experiences
and reported them immediately afterwards.
Of the seven observers who took part
in the experiments, all of them graduate students in psychology, at least half
experienced the Sense of Presence. We speak somewhat indefinitely because in
some instances it was not clear whether or not we had to do with the Sense of
Presence.
The following notes are extracted from
the observations of one of the two subjects who took part in a first series of
experiments. They had been requested to assume an attitude of passive
expectancy.
Subject A. Observation II.—“ Very suddenly there was a feeling that some one was near me ;
there was no visualization except to the point of knowing that the person was
large. I was very sure it was a person, and that he or she was behind my chair,
a little to the left, about one and a half metres away. [No one was in the
room, nor had there been any one there for about three minutes.] I had a
slightly uncanny feeling. Almost immediately there appeared an intense desire
to stand up and turn around toward the person so as to be facing him during a
conversation I felt sure would ensue. I had no idea what the topic of
conversation would be, or why it would take place. But the idea of “ carrying
on a conversation ” and the necessity of standing (more to have better control
of my mental faculties than anything else—it was not out of respect to another
person) were very clear and insistent.”
Observation IV.—“About two minutes after starting the experiment I felt a jar
like a foot-fall, but I heard no sound. A little later there came a feeling of
a vapoury substance near the ceiling, spherical in shape and very definitely
localized. Apparently there were no motor reactions here, and this lasted only
about two seconds. About two seconds later I had a very strong impulse
to run downstairs and out of the house. This was accompanied by an image of
myself running downstairs. At this point there was a sort of terror, but still
no sense of presence. The impulse was much like a panic that immediately
subsided.
“ After an interval of about ten
seconds of passivity and relaxation, there came a sense of presence not very
clear. [Here she raised her hand as a signal that the Presence had come.] Then It
became very clearly present. ‘ Bearing down upon me,’ was the phrase that
flitted through my mind. There was a growing feeling of terror tinged with awe.
By this time there was a noticeable muscular tension all over, accompanied by
an increased rate of breathing. Shortly after this I began to shiver, and later
I had a feeling of cold not connected with the temperature of the room. The
shivering ended in jerking all over. When the shivering began, I had the feeling
of cowering in my chair. After a short time I could stand it no longer and I
impulsively removed the bandage from my eyes, though I knew we had agreed that
the experiment should last ten minutes.”
In another series of experiments with
five different persons, the following instances of the Sense of Presence were
produced in B. and C.:
Subject B. “ I felt as if I were enveloped, as if I were the centre of
concentric circles closing in upon me. The feeling would come after the person
was here. [She means after one of the attendants had come in and stood behind
her chair.] I don’t think I should have felt it if I hadn’t been convinced from
the noises that someone was here, and I argued with myself on this point. I had
the impression of a rhythmic motion. It was rather a restful feeling. There was
no particular emotion.”
During the experience just related,
noises had been made in order to suggest the approach of a person, but no one
had come near the chair of the subject. At this point of the experiment noises
were again produced and the subject tapped loudly to indicate her awareness of
a Presence. Subsequently she described her impressions thus : “ When I tapped I
was just beginning to have that same sensation. It increased after I tapped—the
conviction of a Presence grew stronger. I had the sensation of something being
rather close. I neither heard not saw, yet was aware of it. The more the
feeling of enveloping, of drawing in, increased, the more I felt someone
there.”
C. “ The sounds made by people approaching and retreating, the tick
of the clock, etc., had no effect upon me, for I was attending to my own
psychic processes. The atmosphere seemed thicker than usual and felt charged
with what might be called latent personality1. Out of this more or
less vitalized atmosphere I tried to form definite presences, locating them
with reference to my own position—left front, right front, etc. I succeeded to
some extent ; but the fact that I was consciously imagining these figures
detracted from their reality.
“ Finally, without any effort or
force, I felt a Presence standing at the table to my right and a little behind
my chair. It existed only in reference to me—that is, I had no visual or
auditory imagery of it, but felt it only in so far as it was aware of me. It did
not look at me, but as it turned toward me and put out its arms as if it were
about to touch me, I was so overcome with terror that I lost the sense of its
nearness and became aware only of my own tendency to shrink away —almost
run—and of my quickened pulse.”
The attitude of these persons was
similar to that frequently found in the mystics when they realize the Presence
of God, of Christ, or of some Saint. Our subjects also desired and expected the
Presence, but their efforts seemed no more successful than those of the
mystics. If the Presence appeared at all, it came unexpectedly, after they had
ceased to attempt to visualize or otherwise to realize it. We did not observe
many instances of the gradual passage or, development, of a visualized presence
into a Sense of Presence. On the contrary, although expectation contributes
indirectly to the appearance of the Presence, images voluntarily brought up
seemed to be an obstacle to success. And all the observers agreed that the
Sense of Presence, intense and definite though it was, did not include any
image
1 It is interesting to recall in this connexion the experience of
James Russell Lowell, related in chapter IX.
except with regard to the localization
of the Presence somewhere behind the subject. There are however clear
indications in the records that at times the Presence assumed, for a moment at
least, something of a visual appearance. Localization is also a peculiarity of
the sense of Presence in religion.
With very rare exceptions our subjects
found no difficulty in separating the inference of a presence, made on the
basis of perceived sounds, from what they called a Sense of Presence. An
inferred presence left our subjects more or less indifferent, while the Sense
of Presence involved emotions varied in character and usually intense, and it
carried with it also an intensity of assurance lacking in the mere inference.
It must be emphasized that, however convincing the experience, the nature of
the Presence remained extremely vague1.
* * *
What explanation can psychology offer
of this curious phenomenon? Ordinarily, when we are aware of the presence of
someone, the experience is far from being limited to the perceptions coming
through the external senses. What else enters into the experience is readily discovered
if we attempt to trace the formation, of the conviction of presence.
The impression made upon a new-born
infant by the sight of a person is something very different from the
corresponding experience a few years later. At first the visual impression is
practically meaningless : it calls forth hardly any movements, and only the
vaguest of feelings, emotions and expectations. But, in the course of growth,
the vision of the person—of the mother, let us say—becomes almost endlessly
enriched. The babe sees her in a thousand different attitudes, sees her walk,
stand, sit, etc., etc. More than that, impressions from the external senses,
other than the visual, are added in countless numbers : the mother touches,
holds, and fondles the infant in an indescribable variety of ways. Sounds also
crowd upon the consciousness of the child as he sees the mother. Her steps and
other movements produce noises, and she speaks and makes pretty sounds to the
child.
But all this, one might say, is merely
the picture from the outside. The child reacts to all these external
stimuli; responses are made to the sight, the touch, the sound
impressions. Different, discriminating responses come to be made to many of
these different
1 One might conjecture that the inciting cause of the experience is
some stimulation of a sense organ which escapes the attention of the person. Of
this we have no proof. Were it so, our general conclusions would not be
altered.
stimuli. And these responses turn out
to be far more important for the assurance of the presence of a person
than are the sensory- stimuli themselves.
These reactions involve the whole
bodily mechanism; first of all, the external voluntary muscles, i.e.,
those under control and whose play is visible—for instance, the large muscles
of the legs and arms and the smaller muscles upon which depends the facial
expression. They involve also the less obvious, but not less important, muscles
not under voluntary control and upon which depend the great vital functions of
nutrition, circulation and reproduction. The repeated presence of a person
gradually determines in the babe more and more definite and specific
modifications of respiration (breathing is, for instance, retarded, or
accelerated, or suspended for an instant), of the secretory organs, of the
digestive system (they are activated or inhibited ; salivation, for instance,
is in some way or other affected). Even the reproductive organs may come to be
involved in the total effect.
When the infant has reached maturity,
his reactions to persons he knows, and even to those he does not know, have
attained a complexity which beggars description. We need not attempt to rival
the novelist when he seeks to portray the endless nuances by which the accomplished
society woman indicates to each different person his or her relative place. The
almost infinite variety of impressions made upon her by each individual appears
in her correspondingly varied forms of address, intonation, attitude, and
gesture. And yet that which is perceived by an observer is only a fragment of
that which takes place within her. The formation of infinitely varied
reaction—patterns to the presence of different individuals is one of the main
achievements of social education.
We are stating merely a well-known
fact when we add that knowledge of a person does not imply only, or even
mainly, familiarity with the sensations produced by his looks, the sound of his
voice, the feel of his hand. These are for us signs of the nature of the
personality before us. Real acquaintance with a person means knowledge of his
character, his habits, his ways of thinking, feeling and doing ; this knowledge
means that his presence produces in our bodily organism specific modifications
of the kind described— modifications which constitute in part an actual expression
of our ideas and feelings, and in part a preparation to meet, with the proper
responses, his anticipated behaviour.
The reactions elicited by a person
known to us include a stable kernel, corresponding to his established,
recognized character, and, in addition, elements varying according to the
circumstances: we
288
PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM see him with enjoyment when we are at
leisure, and with annoyance when he interrupts important business.
It is evident that the more essential
elements in the effects produced by the presence of a person are not the
external perceptions considered in themselves (sight, sound, etc.), but those
which we have called the “ reactions,” i.e., the activities in the whole
organism determined by these perceptions—activities of which the subject is
aware in feelings, emotions, impulses, desires, anticipations, intentions,
volitions, etc. We may go a step further and say that the only essential
part of the experience of realizing the presence of a person is constituted by
these reactions. The insufficiency of the external sensations is strikingly
demonstrated in abnormal cases, when the organism does not respond in its
wonted ways. Then, the vivid, intimate sense of a personal presence is weakened
; or in extreme instances, when the organic irresponsiveness is sufficiently
complete, the person is not even recognized in spite of the testimony given by
the external senses. This is what happened to the unfortunate neurasthenic
mentioned by Masselon. In the presence of his daughter, despite the likeness
which he recognized, he would say, “ It seems to me that she is not my
daughter, for if she were my daughter I would experience a great joy1.”
It follows from the above
considerations that the absence of the ordinary visible, auditory and tactile
tokens of a particular person does not preclude awareness and full realization
of his presence. In a room with a screen, we may “ feel ” someone on the other
side of it with all the intensity and definiteness which usually come with
'sight and with hearing—and yet no one may be there?
* * *
At this point the question of the
possible incentives to a conviction of presence must be raised We know that the
original incentives are seeing, hearing and touching the person himself. But
these sensations soon cease to be necessary. They may be replaced by other
sensations which have been associated with them. The creaking of the opening
door may, for instance, determine in the infant the reactions which,
previously, only the perception of the nurse could produce. Any sensation or
perception which frequently accompanies the presence of the nurse may become a
sign of her presence and replace it, so that the infant on receiving the
vicarious impression begins to act as if she were present.
1 Masselon, Les Reactions Affectives et I’Origine de la Douleur
Morale, Jr. de Psychol. Normale et Anormale, vol. II, 1905, p. 496.
On the contrary, two persons different
in their visual appearance and in their voices would, nevertheless, be “ felt ”
to be practically identical persons, should it be possible for them to produce
identical organic reactions.
At a later stage of development, the
thought of these signs is enough to bring to the mind the idea of the person.
Names soon assume a conspicuous place among the signs representing persons and
things. But, of course, the thought or idea of a person and his presence are
far from being identical experiences. The “ thought ” of the presence of a
person is not the experience of the effects which that presence would produce ;
it is merely a representation of part or all of these effects. There is
here the same difference as between an actual visual sensation and the thought
of that sensation.
It is important for us to observe,
however, that the sign or the thought of a presence may set off some, or all,
of the various reactions which the actual presence would call forth. When that
happens, the experience becomes more or less exactly equivalent to an actual
presence. We are told, for instance, that certain novelists (Balzac and
Flaubert among them) would become so completely absorbed in their heroes that
it was as if they were actually conversing with them, and at times as if they
themselves were the heroes. For days Flaubert had on his tongue the taste of
the poison with which Mme Bovary ended her life. In so far as, and while, the
novelist experiences sufficiently completely the reactions which the actual presence
of the person would determine, he may be said to believe in his presence.
Theirs were, however, voluntary illusions. As soon as the purpose to realize
the presence of the hero, in order more truly to picture his behaviour, gives
way to another attitude, the illusion of reality disappears. So that if, at the
moment of greatest absorption, you were to draw the novelist out of his
imaginary world and ask him if he now believes that his personages have
actually been present with him, he would answer : " No, I am not insane.”
It is, however, not necessary to be
insane in order, after the event, to remain persuaded of a visitation. It is
merely necessary that the event should have taken place not as the
result of the experiencer’s own initiative and effort, that it should have
seemed to be imposed from without . In that case, unless he belong to the small class of the
enlightened and critical, the experiencer will probably believe that somebody
or something has been actually present with him. Believers in the traditional
teaching of religious mysticism and, more generally, in alleged spiritistic
phenomena, are not in a position to be sceptical. In the instances of the Sense
of Presence scattered throughout this book, we have observed that this
condition of passivity was realized. Even though the subject desires the
experience, when it comes he seems to have had no share in its production. Mlle
Ve describes very well her impression of being acted upon by a power external
to herself.
We have thus far expressed ourselves
as if the starting-point of the illusion of Presence was either the perception
of something which had become closely associated with the person (his name, an
object belonging to him, etc.), or merely the thought of him. This is obviously
the case in a number of instances. But there are numerous other instances where
the Presence assails the subj ect without apparent causal antecedents. A
careful examination of a number of these instances reveals, however, that even
then some sensation or feeling, or emotion, or thought, suddenly and
incongruously appears in the mind of the subject and suggests the thought of a
personal, or of a less well-defined cause. The thought once present awakens
instantaneously some or all of the reactions the actual presence would
determine, and thus the illusory Sense of Presence is produced.
One cannot in every instance identify
with assurance the starting-point of a Sense of Presence, but possibilities are
never lacking. Mlle Ve was conscious before the realization of the divine
Presence of unusual and more or less remarkable sensations and feelings. In the
instances of Miss L. and of Miss J., and also in the reported experiments, the
situations were such as to be productive of the kind of uneasiness or fear
almost unavoidable when one is alone late at night in a silent house or
anywhere in the dark. Any senseimpression for which one does not find
immediately another satisfactory interpretation may occasion the thought of an
external agent. In this connexion one must not neglect the possible
intervention of peripheral visual impressions, and, in general, of subliminal
sensory stimuli which, as the psychologist knows, although they may not be
clearly conscious, may, nevertheless, be influential.
The unanimous observation of our
subjects, that the perception of foot-steps behind them led to the belief that
someone had come in, but not to the Sense of Presence, and that the effort to
visualize a person did not seem to result in a Sense of Presence, are not to be
regarded as antagonistic to the role we are ascribing to an initial sensory
stimulation and to the thought of a causal agent. These observers knew that at
any time one of the persons present might come in and stand behind them. When
that happened, they were not to let themselves be disturbed, but were to
continue to expect something else. Consequently when they became aware of
noises which were for them clearly foot-steps, the idea of a person behind them
arose in the mind, but only the idea; for, the person actually present was to
remain as non-existent for them, they were to disregard him.
The Sense of Presence appeared, in
these observations, on the basis of queer impressions which challenged the
subject’s power of explanation. For a while he may have maintained a detached
attitude towards them, or assumed the role of a disinterested scientific
observer. So long as this lasted there was no Sense of Presence. If, again,
some unaccountable feeling took place, the strangeness of which roused
astonishment, apprehension, anxiety, or even full-fledged fear, the thought of
an agent, personal or not, might instantaneously be formed, for it is an
ineradicable habit of the mind to ascribe causes, and usually personal causes,
to phenomena. In the peculiar circumstances in which the subjects found
themselves, the idea of an external agent was not inhibited ; it set off
various reactions, awareness of which constituted the Sense of Presence.
The production of
queer, mysterious sensations and the readiness with which these experimenters
yielded to the personifying, or at least to the objectifying habit, is to be
accounted for on the ground of the state in which the conditions of the
experience had placed them. One cannot remain for a considerable length of time
motionless, with closed eyes, in a noiseless room, without approaching the
sleep-state. The surprisingly defective observations of competent witnesses in
attendance at mediumistic seances, we take to have the same cause : a certain
degree of mental dissociation occurs1. Our experimenters were, in
fact, in a light trance while awaiting a rather weird phenomenon—the Sense of
Presence. They were in a condition similar to that of Tennyson repeating his
name, of Abramowski experimenting on dissociation, of Mme Guyon hoping, while in
Contemplation, for the appearance of the Bridegroom, and, generally, of the
religious mystics in orison. .
But the Sense of Presence appears also
in other circumstances. M.E., for instance (Chapter IX), was walking with
companions in the Alps, when suddenly God manifested himself to him with such
power that he had to sit down and let his companions proceed without him’. Here
a brain storm, which may have to be classed with psychic
1 One of our subjects thought she had dozed.
3 In the presence of grand, or particularly beautiful, natural
scenery, many persons “ feel ” the presence of God. As McDougall remarks, this
is no doubt, because the main emotions evoked are those of admiration and
reverence—emotions that involve negative self-feeling. Now, negative selffeeling
is an attitude referring to persons. Thus, one is led to the thought of a
personal power as the cause of the impression.—Introduction to Social
Psychology, p. 130.
292 PSYCHOLOGY OF RELIGIOUS MYSTICISM epilepsies,
caused overpowering disturbances. These were interpreted as a divine
intervention, and this interpretation itself resulted in the production of
attitudes, feelings, emotions, and thoughts such as might be experienced in the
presence of the Christian God of Love. The violence, the strangeness, and
probably also the peculiar quality of the sensory disturbances, were so marked
in this instance that, without the assistance given by a trance-state, the
subject reverted to the naive habit of personification.
Miss J., while in partial darkness,
and in an excited state, did something similar on the occasion of much less
amazing impressions. But she did not altogether assent to an automatic
personification ; she remained sufficiently mistress of herself to assume a critical
attitude. Had she been in a trance-condition, the conviction of Presence would
probably have been complete.
The essential processes resulting in a
Sense of Presence are the same, whether they be determined by a brain storm or
prepared-for by the slow process of orison, or by its equivalent as in our
experiments, or determined by any other means.
The Sense of Presence may refer to a
particular person or to an undefined person whose sex even is not known ; it
may, indeed, refer to a physical agent. These different types of the Sense of
Presence are illustrated in an enlightening manner in the trances of Mlle Ve
(Chapter IX). The Friend was a person, but his sex was obscure. Later the
Friend was replaced by a divine Power, at first personal and subsequently
impersonal. In the instances given in the present chapter, these three
possibilities are also realized.
The nature ascribed to the Presence
depends, in the first instance, upon the nature of the data which initiate the
phenomenon, upon the mental habits of the subject, and upon the content of his
mind at the time. It depends, in the second instance, upon the reactions set
off by the initial thought of the Agent. The importance of the role played by
the several factors, in determining the nature ascribed to the Presence, varies
in each case. When Mlle Ve was yearning for a friend, the Friend came. She
conversed with him and enjoyed the sweetness and comfort provided by the
company of an assured and wise friend. When, later, the character of her
trances changed and the manifestations she experienced seemed to her clearly
beyond the power of man to produce, she thought herself the object of divine
visitations. If, still later, she passed to the conviction that the Power was
impersonal, it was because she no longer received the comfort or felt the
sympathy with which, she knew, the divine Father, would have filled her. The
more sceptical she became as to the personal nature of the Power, the less she
experienced the reactions which a personal God would be expected to produce,
and the more did her scepticism grow.
Our theory of the Sense of Presence is
then, in brief, that the cause of strange impressions (sensations, feelings,
emotions) whose origin is not perceived, js, according to a deeply
ingrained habit of the human mind, automatically personified, or at least
externalized in an Agent, and that the idea of this Agent sets off in the
subject reactions which themselves contribute to the formation of the idea of
the nature of the Agent and to the certainty of his presence. The production of
the phenomenon is much facilitated by a state of trance such as is induced in
mystical worship.
When the Presence takes the form of
the Christian God, the experience may acquire the incomparable significance and
the value which Christians ascribe to his approval and his love.
NOTE ON
THE SENSE OF PRESENCE IN CONTEMPORARY PSYCHOLOGY.
The main interest of James, when he
wrote the Varieties of Religious Experience, was to find in religion
facts which could be used to support his overbelief in a superhuman
consciousness. Nowhere in that book is he more completely dominated by that
wish than in Lecture III where, under the comprehensive title, “ The Reality of
the Unseen,” he discusses the Sense of Presence.
In that lecture the phenomenon is
abundantly illustrated, but no attempt is made to explain it. His purpose is
not to analyse and to understand, but to set forth the wonder, and to declare
the inadequacy of reason to cope with it. He turns away from the problem with
these remarks :
" Such cases, taken along with
others which would be too tedious for quotation, seem sufficiently to prove
the existence in our mental machinery of a sense of present reality more
diffused and general than that which our special senses yield. For the
psychologists the tracing of the organic seat of such a feeling would form a
pretty problem—-nothing would be more natural than to connect it with the
muscular sense, with the feeling that our muscles were innervating themselves
for action. Whatsoever thus innervated our activity, or ' made our flesh
creep,’—our senses are what do so oftenest— might then appear real and present,
even though it were but an abstract idea. But with such vague conjectures we
have no concern at present, for our interest lies with the faculty rather with
its organic seat1.”
Instead of attempting to do the work
that might be expected of the psychologist, James launched into a tirade
against rationalism : “ We have to confess that the part of it of which
rationalism can give an account is relatively superficial. It is the part that
has the prestige undoubtedly, for it has the loquacity, it can challenge
you for proofs, and chop logic, and put you down with words. But it will fail
to convince or convert you all the same, if your dumb intuitions are opposed to
its conclusions. If you have intuitions at all, they come from a deeper level
of your nature than the loquacious level which rationalism inhabits.” "
Something in you absolutely knows that that result must be truer than
any logic-chopping rationalistic talk, however clever, that may contradict it2.”
It is fortunate for science and
philosophy that this passage does not represent William James completely. It
expresses only one, or perhaps two, of the several moods or attitudes of this
gifted writer : the mood of the scientist
1 Varieties of Religious Experience, p. 63.
3 Ibid., p. 73.
acutely conscious of defeat and
limitation, and partly discouraged ; and the mood of the romantic soul, lover
of adventure and mystery. The first is the mood that enslaves men to Authority,
the second is the mood of Superstition. That there will always remain unplumbed
depths, is as certain for us as for William James, but this admission should
not dispose us to heed the admonition to hold back from an examination of
alleged " intuitions.” Psychological knowledge has. already gone far
enough to deliver man from the belief that all the 'so-called " intuitions
” that come to him with an assurance of certainty are therefore true.
It is perhaps not superfluous to
remark that our own conclusion (the Sense of the Presence of a personal God is
adequately explicable as an illusion) is not equivalent to a denial of the
reality of any and every kind of Unseen.
In the Psychology of Religious
Belief, Professor Pratt had already approached this problem. In the Religious
Consciousness, he returned to it with especial reference to Professor Coe’s
article in the Hibbert Journal, mentioned elsewhere in this book. Pratt
affirms, in opposition to Coe, that the Sense of Presence and the strength
which comes from it often appear when the trance conditions are absent, and he
argues that the explanation of Professor Coe is inadequate : " Education
and suggestion (the principles of explanation offered by Coe) then, constitute
a partial, but only a partial, explanation of the mystic consciousness. For a
full and complete explanation we must go deeper than this .... But if it is
ever to be fully made out, it must be sought pretty far down in the less
superficial parts of our psycho-physical being. . . . The full explanation of
it, if it is ever found, will involve not merely the acceptance of suggested
ideas, but much of our emotional and volitional nature, the fringe
region of consciousness, and perhaps also the unconscious and instinctiye-
regjensLpf .our bemg.'It is hardly to be expected that such a complete
explanation will be made out for several generations at the earliest1.”
Whether Professor Pratt has not
exaggerated the difficulties is a question which the reader will have to decide
for himself.
* * *
In a paper already mentioned in this
book2, Bernard Leroy cites several instances of the Sense of
Presence, extracts their characteristic features, and attempts an explanation.
It was, in so far as our information goes, the first serious effort to find a
scientific solution of that puzzling problem. The explanation is of the same
type as that given, in the same article, to the illusion of illumination. It
may be summarized in three propositions :—
1.
A group of specific emotions normally accompany the presence near
us of a particular person.
2.
This group of emotions may appear in the absense of the person.
3.
The character of the person, felt as present, will vary according
to the composition of the emotional complex which appears.
He introduces also in his explanation
a volitional element, but only in an effort to account for the localization of
the Presence.
This theory constitutes an important
step in the right direction. It is, however, too incomplete and too general to
be acceptable as adequate. The psycho-physiological effects of the presence
with us of a person is by no means limited to the production of a specific
complex of emotions, and I know of no reason for limiting to the emotional life
the processes to which the Sense of Presence is due.
It is also to be observed that Leroy
brings no light to bear upon the origin or cause, of the " non-logical ”
processes which are responsible for the hallucination of Presence.
1
The Religious Consciousness, New York, Macmillan, 1920, pp. 451-2, abbreviated.
2
Interpr&ation Psychologique des " Visions Intellectuelles
” chez les Mystiques Chrdtiens, Rev. de I’Histoire des Religions, vol. LV, 1907, pp. 25-50.
We must draw attention also to an historical
review and a critical discussion of this class of problems by Henri Delacroix,
in a valuable appendix (“ Hallucinations Psychiques—Sentiment de Presence ”)
to Etudes d' Histoire et de Psychologic du Mysticisms.
The Effects of the- Impression of
Divine Presence.—The Sense
of the Presence of God greatly increases the far-reaching effects which the
mere thought of him may have upon the worshipper ; and when the divine Presence
is felt during a state of increased suggestibility, such as trance, it becomes
difficult to overestimate its possibilities. Our great mystics find in it the
satisfaction of the needs and cravings for which they have entered upon the
religious life Loved by the Christian God, their lives become unified and
centred about him. Their energies are no longer dissipated in fruitless
yearnings and conflicting tendencies ; sources of energy until then dormant or
inhibited are aroused to great activity. Thus their vital aspirations are
fulfilled and their claims granted.
It is not necessary to insist upon the
truth of these affirmations, for they are amply verified in the foregoing
chapters, in particular in “ Motivation of Christian Mysticism.” It will be
more instructive for us to turn to a comparison of the acknowledged effects of
God’s presence with the effects of man’s presence when his ministrations are
exercised under circumstances similar to those of the mystical trance.
In Chapter VI it was shown that, in
its larger aspects, the hypnotic trance was similar to the religious trance of
the mystics, the presence of the-hypnotizer acting in the same way as the
divine Presence. A particularly intimate relation of trust is usually
established between hypnotizer and hypnotized. The hypnotizer is no ordinary
man to his subjects ; for him they would do almost anything. They express their
feelings in various ways according to their age, situation, etc. A patient of
Janet who was no longer young wanted to regard him as her son1, and
another one used to say that she had for him the same feelings as for the “
bon Dien1.”
“ The first obvious fact regarding
many of these subjects is that during the period of influence, they think
constantly of their hypnotizer.” When they cannot see him daily, they fall into
the habit of writing a diary for him, or of writing him interminable letters. “
The idea of the hypnotizer manifests itself especially in connexion with the
actions that have been forbidden during hypnosis. The subject no longer feels
himself free, he thinkshimself directed.” One of them says, ” I am a machine of
which you are the spring ; another, “ I am a jumping jack of which you hold the
strings ;
1 Neuroses ei I dees Fixes, vol. I, p. 447-
another, “ It is your will that has
taken the place of mine, it seems to me that I no longer belong to myself1.”
“ At times, the idea of the hypnotizer
is conscious and obsesses the mind of the subject; at times it is subconscious
and manifests itself by automatic movements or hallucinations2.”
It is only when there exists this
intimate relationship with, and domination by the hypnotizer that the patients
are profoundly transformed3. When, as invariably happens after a
time, the thought of the hypnotizer has lost its power, the patient feels
abandoned : V el. says, “ Oh, it is not nice of you to have abandoned
me, to have left me alone. I am lost if you do not sustain me.” And Me.,
thus left alone and having no one to think of, falls again into despair and
once more loses her head4.
This description of the influence of
the hypnotizer upon the Jiypnotized corresponds with striking
exactness to_that given by .the mystics of_their relation with God. It
would be easy to draw from the biographical chapters, expressions parallel to
those just quoted. They are God’s favourite children, or they stand to him in a
still closer relationship—that of the bride to the bridegroom ; it is no longer
they who think and act, it is God in them. Their dependence upon him may become
so complete that when he has not visited them for a space they complain of
being abandoned, become restless, miserable, and fall into “ dryness3.”
Automatic movements and hallucinations appear in the mystics also and are
ascribed by them to the divine Presence.
But a person need be neither in a
religious trance nor in hypnosis in order to undergo the unifying influence of
a divine or human presence. According to the founder of psychoanalysis no cure
is possible by that method—a method that does not include hypnotiza- tion—until
emotional interest is transferred to the physician. By emotional interest he means
the tender emotion, love. We need not attempt to say who or what was the
original object of the emotional interest which is to be transferred. It is
sufficient for our purpose to know that for Freud the condition of cure is such
a transference to the person of the physician. The “ transference may occur as
a stormy demand for love or in a more moderate form; in place of wishing to be
his mistress, the young girl may be content to be adopted as the favoured
daughter of the old physician ; or the
1
Nevroses et Ide.es Fixes, vol. I, pp. 447-8.
2
Ibid., pp.
451-2.
3
Ibid., p. 452.
4
Ibid., p. 454.
5
The causal relationship may be the reverse.
SENSE OF DIVINE GUIDANCE 297 libidinous
desire may be toned down to a proposal of inseparable but ideal platonic
friendship1.” The male patients behave in a similar way; there is
the same overestimation of the qualities of the physician, the same readiness
to confide in him all their private affairs, the same jealousy, etc.2”
The facts observed should not be
confused with the Freudian explanation of them. Practically all the physicians
who treat neuropaths—whatever the school of therapeutics to which they
belong—observe that an intimate relationship develops between the patient and
themselves, and they agree in regarding that relationship as essential to
success.
No one familiar with the disclosures
of the great mystics will fail to notice that this relationship, as described
by Janet or by Freud—whether the patient be hypnotized or not—is couched in
terms similar to those of the mystics when they describe their relation with
God. They also make upon God or the Virgin a “ stormy ” demand for love ; they
also wish to be lovers or mistresses ; and, even though they have no thought
other than that of an ideal, platonic love, nevertheless their sexual organism
participates in the intercourse3.
That human love, while it lasts, cures
body and soul is perhaps nowhere demonstrated more convincingly than in the
recent great work of P. Janet, Medications Psychologiques, to which we
have already referred several times. The experience of Heloise is not limited
to psychopaths. She writes to her physician : “ When an intelligent man chances
to show me some interest, it sets my eyes so to sparkling that they dazzle the
one who in kindness has paid me some attention. You won’t believe it, but that
is for me the best medicine4.” "As long as I was in an
atmosphere of tender and reciprocated affection, I was a ray of sunshine, a
living and life-giving person. Now, I am a corpse who speaks and weeps. ... As
soon as I fall in love all my ailments are cured5.”
Under the happy excitement of love, a
man forty years of age recovered all the enthusiasm and all the facility of
literary composition enjoyed during the war: "I was a marvel of love, of
literary fertility and joy ; I felt as if I were a demi-god6.” A
woman
1
A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis, Eng. trans., 1920, p. 382.
2
Ibid., p. 382.
3
What is meant by this affirmation is indicated in the discussion
of the sex motive.
4
Vol. Ill, p. 206.
5
Ibid., p. 205.
6
Ibid., p. 168.
of the same age declares that the only
thing which has always been successful with her are amorous adventures :
"I have tried religion and philanthropy, but they are only makeshifts ;
always I have to come back to the treatment that suits me best1.” “
Ec. (a woman forty-two years old) has gone through several great fits of
depression ; for months she remained inert and groaning, complaining of
digestive troubles, of insomnia, of anxiety, etc. ; then rapidly she appears to
recover and her husband is delighted. These recoveries mark the beginning of a liaison
with the husband of one of her friends : ‘These secret assignations occupy and
divert my mind, prevent me from thinking of my unfortunate marriage with a good
fellow, but so prosaic. . . . When I had seen him (her lover) during the day, I
digested very well and I slept all night.’ This relation lasted three years,
during which the patient had no relapse. Unfortunately her lover died and
speedily the fits of depression returned. After many months of suffering, she
thought of trying religion, went to a priest and formed the habit of seeing him
every day. A new intrigue began, mysterious meetings followed, and the attack
of melancholia came to an end. After one year of perfect health the patient is
again miserable because the priest, fearful of being discovered, brought the
relation to an end and left the country2.” Love of God—platonic
though not unsexual,—represented in succession by two priests, produced quite
the same effect on Mme Guyon.
It might be objected that the
remarkable instances of cure ’and vivification reported above refer to abnormal
persons; moreover, that they take place under the ministrations of professional
medical men ; whereas, in religion, ordinary normal persons for whom baleful
external circumstances have been too much, or whose only disorder is “
spiritual,” are healed not only physically, but also “ spiritually ” and
without intervention of medical psychological science; ' that, therefore, a
power of another kind is manifested in religion.
But is it not a widely known fact that
love, without the mediation of psychotherapy or of religion, performs spiritual
miracles ? The great human loves are favourite topics of the poets. We shall
content ourselves with the reproduction of a passage from J. S. Mill’s
autobiography, in which the loss suffered by the death of a beloved wife gives
some idea of what she had been to the philosopher:
“ Since then I have sought for such
alleviation as my state admitted of, by the mode of life which most enabled me
to feel her
1
Ibid., p. 169.
2
Ibid.
still near me. I bought a cottage as
close as possible to the place where she is buried, and there her daughter (my
fellow-sufferer and now my chief comfort) and I, live constantly during a great
portion of the year. My objects in life are solely those which were hers; my
pursuits and occupations those in which she shared,or sympathized, and which
are indissolubly associated with her. Her memory is to me a religion, and her
approbation the standard by which, summing up as it does all worthiness, I
endeavour to regulate my life.” " I endeavour to make the best of what
life I have left, and to work on for her purposes with such diminished strength
as can be derived from thoughts of her, and communion with her memory
.”
In the class of cures illustrated
above, just as much as in the instance of J. S. Mill, it is evident that the
remedy reaches the very sources of life and for that reason heals body and soul
together. The degree of perfection of the life which is generated by love
depends upon the quality of that love and of its object. It is obviously, in
part, because of imperfections in the object of love, as well as in the ideal
of the lover, that most of the transformations we have reported leave so much
to be desired from the ethical point of view and that they are rarely
permanent.
For persons suffering from the social
mal-adjustments characteristic of the early life of our great mystics, sufficient
as a remedy is any means which shall remove the inhibitions and repressions and
shall tap the springs of life. Whatever liberates the pent-up forces.and
provides normal outlets wfor self-expression will induce in the
afflicted a transformation similar to that achieved by the love of God. Of all
the liberators, none equals love, whether of God or of man ; for the
love-relation brings about the satisfaction of the most fundamental and
irresistible of all physiological functions and innate cravings : the sex
functions, the tendencies to self-affirmation and self-esteem, and the desire
for the peace of inner unity and of affectionate trust.
* * *
The development of the mystical
technique for the realization of a quasi-physical presence of the Perfect One constitutes
the most remarkable achievement of religion in man’s struggle to overcome
adverse external circumstances, his own imperfections, and those of his
fellowmen. It is one of the outstanding expressions of the creative power
working in humanity. It is paralleled in the realm of reason by the development
of science. Both lead, if in different ways, to the physical and spiritual
realization of man.
RELIGION, SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY
1. Science and the Belief in
the Gods of the Religions.
It is a generally accepted proposition
that science is not qualified to pass judgment on religion. It is said that
science stands outside the lists in which the question of the existence and of
the nature of God are to be decided, that these problems concern metaphysics. “
Psychology neither rejects nor affirms the transcendental existence of the
religious objects ; it simply ignores that problem as being outside of its
field1.”
This principle of the exclusion of the
transcendent from the province of science, made repeatedly by authoritative
philosophers and scientists, has been acclaimed with the keenest satisfaction
by modem theologians as an impenetrable shield for their religions. They
construed it as meaning that science, which has already shattered so many secondary
religious beliefs, was impotent with regard to the central, the one necessary,
belief of the organized religions, i.e., the belief in a God in direct
communication with man, a God with whom the worshipper may commune and who
under certain conditions wilL answer man’s desires and supplications,
either by suspending the natural laws or by altering them, or by inserting, as
it were, his Will between the natural forces. They have rejoiced in this
assurance and have found delight in directing their followers to utterances
such as these: “Never be afraid of science. In particular do not fear its
influence upon your faith, for science and faith are not of the same order.
Science is neutral, silent, ' agnostic,’ regarding the foundation of things and
the final meaning of life. And so, never ask of it arguments favouring your convictions.
But be equally certain that it does not speak in favour of antagonistic
doctrines2.”
But the principle of the irrelevance
of science to the transcendent shields the cardinal belief of the established
religions only if their gods are transcendental objects. In taking for granted
that they are
1
Flournoy, Th, Les Principes de la Psychologic Religieuse,
Archives de Psychologie, vol. II, 1903, pp. 37-41.
2
Flournoy, Th, Le Ginie Religieux, a lecture to the Swiss
Students’ Christian Association, Sainte-Croix, 1904, p. 34. Abbreviated,
such objects, an error has been
committed and grave confusion has been introduced in the discussion of the
relation of science to religion.
If i? should turn out that the beliefs
in the gods which make possible the religions, as they have existed and as they
exist to-day, come from the naive interpretation of certain phenomena—whether
physical or psychical—then those beliefs would disappear together with
that interpretation. If, for instance, anyone should believe in the existence
of a superhuman personal Power because of thunder and lightning, or because
unaccountably to himself he has escaped a sudden danger, or because, after
prayer, health has been restored and moral refreshment and strength have come
to him—if that should be the ground of his belief in God, that belief would
vanish should he become convinced that these facts are susceptible of an
explanation in accordance with scientific principles.
Should the present belief in the gods
of the religions have that source, the agreement of philosophers and of
scientists regarding the limitation of science would in no way warrant the
interpretation of the theologians, for the affirmation that science has nothing
to say on the problem of God disregards the supposition we have just made.
The question raised by the affirmation
we are discussing is that of the relation of science to the belief which makes
the religions possible, i.e., the belief in a sympathetic God in direct
communication with man. We affirm that a belief naively derived from the
observation of phenomena would not be independent of science ; it would, on the
contrary, be subject to its conclusions. Physical science declares that thunder
and lightning are in themselves no proof of the existence of invisible
superhuman beings in direct relation with man, and psychological science
altogether discredits the attribution of healing and of the .increased
confidence and happiness following upon prayer to anything other than the
operation of natural laws.
It is to be noted, however, that even
if this conclusion be accepted, and the ground of belief of the average
believer thus removed, it might still be possible to satisfy oneself as to the
existence of some sort of God : the metaphysical method of proof would remain
open.
Our argument leads to a question of
fact: is the belief in God, or are the beliefs in gods which have made possible
the historical religions1 due entirely or essentially to an
animistic interpretation of 1 We are discussing the religions that
are or have been, not those that might be ; for we should like to avoid the
confusion arising from a favourite practice of liberal writers on religion. They
are fond of speaking of religion in the abstract, of “ Pure Religion.” Of that
non-existent, they find it easy to say the most admirable things ; and it
usually happens, to the satisfaction particular
physical phenomena and of the phenomena of “ inner ” experience ?
It will be readily granted that
neither the non-civilized nor the semi-civilized believe in gods because of
metaphysical considerations, but because of a variety of specific experiences
which, as it seems to them, point to the action in nature or in themselves of
personal invisible superhuman Beings1.
The present-day religions of civilized
peoples are no more dependent upon metaphysical proofs of God for their
existence than are those of the non-civilized. These proofs, as it is customary
to call them, are known to only an infinitesimal number of the members of the
Christian churches. Apart from the will to believe—and of this motive we are
not now speaking—the really effective cause of whatever belief in God
exists in our Christian~cKurches is of the same kind as that of
the belief in the divine Beings of the non-civilized.
If, among the educated, physical
phenomena have almost ceased to be regarded as direct expressions of the will
of God, the factsy>f “ inner ” experience, or at least the rarer and the
more surprising of these facts, constitute the ground of the present-day vital
belief, in the God-Providence. We refer”to" the “ voice ” of
conscience, to sudden conversion, to the peace, the hope, and the courage
produced by prayer, and to the various other striking phenomena of mystical
ecstasy considered in preceding chapters. For additional evidences we refer the
reader to an earlier book2, from which we abstract the following
passages :
Document 3.—A professor at the school of Protestant theology in Paris
writes : “ God is not a phenomenon that we may observe apart from ourselves, or
a truth demonstrable by logical reasoning, of almost everybody, that their
readers understand them to refer to the particular religion of their adherence.
I might quote distinguished names ; let me rather illustrate from a regular
writer on religion for a great daily paper. He wishes to show that it is
because of misunderstandings that science and religion seem opposed to each
other. He affirms that “True Science and True Religion cannot be
opposed.”—Probably not, if we are concerned not with the religions as they
exist, but with something else that does not exist ; and obviously not if “
true religion ” is sufficiently defined as he defines it: “ The Art of living
truthfully and well ” I But if we are concerned with reality, with the actual
religion of the Roman Catholic Church, of the Protestant Episcopal Church, of
the Methodist Church, etc., then it is foolish or worse to speak in that
fashion. Of what relevance would it be to descant upon the high utility and
necessity of business in the abstract ? To speak usefully one should speak with
reference to forms of business actually in existence or which might be established.
1
As to the origin of the God-ideas, we have said what we could in A
Psychological Study of Religion.
2
A Psychological Study of Religion, New York, Macmillan, 1912, Chapter XI, pp. 205-77.
He who does not feel Him in his heart
will never feel Him from without. The object of religious knowledge reveals
itself only in the subject, by means of the religious phenomena themselves. . .
. We never become conscious
of our piety externally, we feel religiously moved, perceiving, more or less
obscurely, in that very emotion the object and the cause of religion, i.e.,
God. Observe the natural and spontaneous movement of piety ; a soul
feels an inner peace and light; is it strong, humble, resigned, obedient ? It
immediately attributes its strength, its faith, its humility, its obedience, to
the action of the divine spirit within itself. Anne Doubourg, dying at the
stake, prayed, ‘ Oh God, do not abandon me lest I should fall off from thee ’
. . to feel thus in our personal and
empirical activity the action and the presence of the spirit of God within our
own spirit, is a mystery, as it is also the source of religion.”
“ Truths of the religious and of the
moral order are known by subjective action of what Pascal calls the heart.
Science can know nothing about them, for they are not in its order1.”
Document 4.—A leader of the liberal movement in the United States
expresses similar views. “ God is not an hypothesis which the minister has
invented to account for the phenomena of creation. He knows that there is a
' power not ourselves that makes for righteousness, because when he has been
weak that power has strengthened him, when he has been a coward that power has
made him strong, when he has been in sorrow that power has comforted him,
when he has been in perplexity that power has counselled him, and he has walked
a different path and lived a different life and has been a different man
because there is that power, impalpable, invisible, unknown, and yet best and
most truly known2.”
The entire self-sufficiency of the
experiential basis of faith in God has nowhere been more boldly proclaimed than
among the Society of Friends. “ The fundamental significant thing which stands
out in early Quakerism was the conviction which these founders of it
felt, that they had actually discovered the living God and that He was in them.
They all have one thing to say—‘ I have experienced God.’ ” “It (Quakerism) was
first of all the proclamation of an experience. The movement came to birth,
and received its original power, through persons who were no less profoundly
conscious of a divine presence than they were of a world in space3.”
1
Sabatier, A., Outlines of a Philosophy of Religion, James
Pott and Co., New York, 1902, pp. 308-9, 311.
2
Abbott, Lyman, Address before the. Alumni of Bangor Theological
Seminary, The Outlook, June 25, 1898.
3
Jones, Rufus, Social Law in the Spiritual World, p. 161.
From end to end of the Protestant
world these “ inner experiences ” ^constitute the only qrgument actually
relied upon for the belief in a (jod in affective
and intellectual relation with man.
Should there be no ground of belief
other than physical phenomena and inner experiences, then, for those who are
acquainted with the modern scientific conceptions, there could be no belief in
God. But philosophy knows, as
we have already remarked, of another route to the belief in a God : the
metaphysical route. As this is a scientific inquiry we can discuss neither the
nature of the metaphysical arguments nor their degree of validity, but we may draw
attention to two results of the metaphysical effort of the past centuries :
1.
It seems that materialism, as a metaphysical doctrine1,
has few supporters to-day, while idealism and spiritualism in their various
forms, are the dominant conceptions. These doctrines agree in affirming that
the ultimate Reality, commonly spoken of as God, is of a mental, a spiritual
nature.
2.
The God to which this dominant trend of metaphysics points, is an
impassible, infinite Being—a being therefore who does not bear to man the
relation which every one of the historical religions assumes to exist and seeks
to maintain by means of its system of creeds and worship. The direct address
characteristic^ the rituals of every existing religion would jw longer
be possible should the_gods- _of metaphysics replace the
gods of the religions"
A strenuous effort is made in liberal
religious circles, supposedly in the interest of religion, to conceal the
magnitude of the difference > between the God of the Christian religion and
the impassable, infinite Reality of metaphysics. It seems clear, however, that
the passage from the former to the latter belief would mean nothing less than
the disappearance of the religious worship of to-day. That another form of
belief and practice, which might with some degree of propriety be called
religion, would take the place of the actual religions, seems to us most
probable, but that is not a question for discussion in this book.
It should not however be overlooked
that even though metaphysics should establish the existence of the gods of the
religions, the practical problem would not be solved, for the metaphysical
proofs are accessible to but a few ; even for these, they do not provide a
ground of belief comparable in power of conviction with the impression of a
direct apprehension of God in “ inner ” experience.
1
For a brief review of the metaphysical arguments adduced in
support of personal immortality, see the author’s Belief in God and
Immortality, Chicago, Open Court Publ. Co. 1921, chap. V.
11
. Mystical Trance and the Conception of God ; the immediate
Apprehension oj God.
The influence of mystical trance upon
philosophical systems would make one of the most curious chapters of the
history of philosophy. Let us hope that some competent person will soon write
that chapter. As for us, after brief remarks upon the NeoPlatonic philosopher,
Plotinus, we shall do no more than examine with some care the teachings of two
modem representatives of the mystical tradition, Wm. James and Wm. Hocking.
When one believes with the mystics
that God, the Absolute, the Ultimate Reality—these terms and others are used
interchangeably in this connexion—is directly experienced in ecstatic trance
and nowhere else, it would seem to follow that knowledge of the tranceconsciousness
includes a knowledge of God.
The problem of the nature of the
divine Power or Powers was hardly formulated in the mind of the uncivilized
mystic. He was engrossed in enjoying and using his trances. He merely affirmed
its transcendental significance, he did not speculate about it. But it was
otherwise at the beginning of the Christian era among the possessors of Greek
culture. There the problem of the nature of God had been definitely formulated
and was eagerly discussed. The Neo-Platonists, Plotinus in particular, took up
certain strands of Hellenic thought, woven, perhaps, partially and indirectly
from Hindoo mystical metaphysics1 (itself dependent upon the much
older and cruder tradition of the uncivilized regarding ecstatic trance), and
spun wonderful theories.
That the mystical
theories of Plotinus (bom 205 a.d.)
had one of their roots in ecstasy, appears with satisfactory clearness in his
writings, and nowhere better than in this passage from the Enneads : .
"Now often I am roused from the
body to my true self and behold a marvellous beauty, and am particularly
persuaded at the time that I belong to a better sphere, and live a supremely
good life, and become identical with the godhead, and fast fixed therein attain
its divine activity, having reached a plane above the whole intelligible
realm.” “ Now since in the vision they were not two, but the seer was made one
with the seen, not as'with something seen, but as with something made one with
himself, he who has been united with it might, if he remember, have by him some
faint image of the divine. He himself was one (in the vision), with no
distinctions within himself
12
An excellent brief exposition of the mystical metaphysics of the
Upanishads may be found in Josiah Royce’s Gifford Lectures, The World and the
Individual, vol. I, Fourth Lecture, pp. 165-75.
either as regarded himself or outer
things. There was no movement of any sort in him, nor was emotion or desire of
any outer thing present in him after his ascent, no, not any reason or any
thought, nor was he himself present to himself, if I may so express it1.”
The theory that in ecstasy the self
becomes “ identical with the ' godhead and attains its divine activity ” offers
a special difficulty; for ecstatic trance is not a simple experience, uniform
as long as it lasts. It consists, on the contrary, in a succession of mental
states which grow more and more simple and end in total unconsciousness.
At which one of these stages is the
deification complete ? If at the final stage, the description of the Divine
would be brief indeed, since that stage is characterized by complete
unconsciousness. The practical Christian mystics, however, firmly anchored in
the beliefs in Christ as Son of God, and in a personal and more or less
anthropomorphic Father, can not possibly make God equal to unconsciousness.
They select among the various and successive aspects of ecstasy those which are
not too far removed from the traditional Christian conception. The phases of
the trance in which ravishing love or peace and trust, in complete
surrender to the Will of God, dominate are those which they regard as divine.
We recall also that a condition of automatic activity, referred to Christ or
God as the cause, is spoken of by some of the great Christian mystics as
deification.
As to Plotinus, if he was not
embarrassed by an anthropomorphic conception of God, he was influenced by other
preconceptions, those familiar to the philosophers of his time. Hindoo as well
as Greek philosophy regarded God as infinite, i.e., as in no way limited or
conditioned. Therefore nothing could be predicated of him ; for the possessing
of specific qualities would be a limitation of his infinite nature.
Under the influence of considerations
of that type, uncompromisingly logical minds might identify the Absolute with
the final phase of ecstasy of which, as a matter of fact, only negations can be
affirmed. That is what the philosophers of the Upanishads did. Certain German
mystics, in particular Boehme and Eckhart, have yielded to the same temptation
: “ Alles Endliche ist ein Abfall vom Wesen. Im Wesen giebt es keinen
Gegensatz, nicht Lieb, noch Leid, nicht Weiss noch Schwarz,” said Eckhart. In
this view, not even being or essence can be affirmed of the Absolute : "
Nichts werden ist Gott werden2.”
1
Charles Bakewell, Source Book in Ancient Philosophy, New
York, Scribner’s Sons, 1907, pp. 386, 391-2.
2
A. Lasson, Meister Eckhart, der Mystiker, Berlin, 1868.
If these Hindoo and German
philosophers followed logic into a black hole, Plotinus was somewhat less
radical. The delightful aspects of ecstasy, which are responsible for the warm,
humane elements in the divine picture drawn by less intellectual mystics were
not without influence upon him. He noted the marvellous beauty of his visions
and believed that he was “ living a supremely good life.” He seemed to have
identified God with a lingering consciousness of selfhood and with
indescribable, yet desirable, feelings characteristic of an advanced stage of
ecstatic trance.
However that may be, the non-civilized
and the practical Christians under the influence of popular preconceptions
identify God with a penultimate stage of ecstasy, while radical philosophers,
slaves to logic, make him one with the ultimate phase, i.e., with complete
unconsciousness. This means that for the former, not unity or simplicity, not
the disappearance of individuality, of differences and divergences, but a
plenitude of felt-life, a wonderful impression of free-power, realized in a
variety of illusions and hallucinations, are the aspects of ecstasy which make
it divine.
We wish to draw especial attention to
the convergence upon the conception of the Divine of what is by many regarded
as two co-ordinate sources of knowledge ; on the one hand1,
discursive thinking ; on the other, the trance-experience, a source of
immediate knowledge,”—knowledge independent of fallible mental processes. Some
speak as if reason recognized in a phase of ecstatic trance the Divine
whose nature it had previously determined. Others speak as if the ecstatic
..experience revealed the nature . of God, while the role of reason
remained a subordinate one. What we are to think of this mystical " source
of knowledge ” will appear in the sequel.
Wm James and mystical ecstasy.—In a book in which religious life is searched for facts that would
support his pluralistic philosophy and provide a basis for a religious belief,
Wm James sets down these three propositions :
“ Mystical states, when they are well
developed, usually are, and have a right to be, absolutely authoritative over
the individuals to whom they come.
“No authority emanates from them which
should make it a duty for those who stand outside of them to accept their
revelations uncritically.
“ They break down the authority of the
non-mystical or rationalistic consciousness, based upon the understanding and
the senses alone. They show it to be only one kind of consciousness.
They open out the possibility of other
orders of truth in which, so far as anything in us vitally responds to them, we
may freely continue to have faith1.”
The mystic’s revelation is, we are
told, invulnerable because, even though his senses are in abeyance, his
experience is as truly a direct perception of fact as any sensation ever is2.
He is in possession of “ immediate ” or “ intuitive ” knowledge, therefore of
unassailable knowledge, since it is given and not secured by mental
operations always open to error3.
We agree with Wm James that whatever
is “ immediate,” “ pure experience,” whatever has not been mentally elaborated,
is invulnerable. There is here no room for difference of opinion. Disagreements
may appear, however, over the problem of what is to be regarded in
experience as “ immediate.”
In our opinion Wm James has erred, not
in considering " pure ” experience as unassailable, but in unwittingly
regarding as such more than the “ given.” He has confused pure experience with
elaborations of it. It is because of that error that he was a believer in
mysticism; or, one should perhaps say that he committed that error because he
wished to believe in a mystical revelation.
But for what in mystical experience
does James claim invulnerability ? The uncritical mystic believes that Christ,
or the Virgin, or some saint, has manifested himself to him. Although these and
similar experiences have at times, for the recipient, a “ sensational ” quality
as compelling as that of true perception, James regards them as illusory
because, when critically examined, when confronted with the rest of experience,
they do not stand the test. They hold, however, he affirms, a kernel
immediately given, "n. iptuitipnal, and, therefore, invulnerable. What is
this kernel ? He answers that it consists in a feeling or conviction of
vastness, of reconciliation, of repose, of safety, of union, of harmony4.
In these terms, and in no others more explicit, does our distinguished
philosopher define the kernel of unassailable truth revealed in mystical
ecstasy. It is more than the Nothingness extolled by the
1
The Varieties of Religious Experience, pp. 422-3.
2
Ibid., pp.
423-4.
3
In a preceding section we have attempted to account for the
impression of certainty which accompanies that “ knowledge.”
4
“ The key note of it is, invariably, a reconciliation.” Ibid.,
p. 388. The mystical states “ tell of the supremacy of the ideal, of vastness,
of union, of safety, and of rest.” Ibid., p. 428. Elsewhere he is much
less definite, as when he writes that mystical ecstasy reveals “ states of
insight into depths of truth unplumbed by the discursive intellect. There are
illuminations, revelations full of significance and importance, all
inarticulate though they remain.” Ibid., p. 380.
Neo-Platonists.
It bears closer affinity to positive happiness and intimates that there is
ground for radical optimism.
It should not be forgotten that these
alleged “ truths ” are revealed not only to a few lofty religious souls. Any
and everybody may enjoy them. Nitrous oxide " stimulates the mystical
consciousness in an extraordinary degree ” ; and alcohol " brings its
votary from the chill periphery of things to the radiant core. It makes him for
the moment one with truth1.” Here James is certainly in accord with
the facts as our investigation of drug-ecstasy has revealed them. H0wever.1t
may be produced, ecstasy is ecstasy just as fever is fever whatever its cause..
The truth-kernel of religious ecstasy is, as we have shown, no^other
"than the truth-kernel of narcotic intoxication and of
ecstatic trance in general..
There is no doubt whatsoever that the
words quoted— reconciliation, repose, safety, union, harmony—describe the more
general, fundamental impressions which come to most mystics. But it appears to
us evident that everyone of these words implies an interpretation of
" neutral stuff.” Their meaning involves, as all meaning does, a relating
of two terms. If, for instance, “ reconciliation ” and “ union ” have any
meaning at all, it is that of the establishment or recognition of a specific
relation between two or more terms. Now, unification may be attained in two
ways : (1) An understanding of the two terms may be achieved which shows them
to be subsumed under a general principle or included in a larger whole. That is
the kind of harmony produced by the understanding. (2) The terms may lose their
individual features and be degraded to a level of undifferentiated simplicity.
That, as we have seen, is the mystical way of producing " harmony ” or
" unity.” It is a way which does not secure any knowledge.
If by “ union ” James had merely meant
to indicate that, as the trance progresses, the mystic notices the gradual
disappearance of boundary lines between objects, the merging of ideas into one
another, the fusion of feelings, and that he enjoys a delightful sense of
peace, no objection could have been raised against the claim of
unassailability. But it would have been an insignificant claim. What James
means is that the mystical experience points to, or signifies, a union of the
individual with Someone or Something else. Now, that is just as much an
interpretation of immediate experience as the affirmation of the Salvation Army
lassie that she has met Christ face to face. Before it can be accepted as true
the alleged “ immediate ” experience in both instances must be tested according
to the canons of scientific evidence, for the “ perceptual ” quality of
1
Loc cit., p. 387.
the experience no more justifies the
mystic in placing credence in it than the absence of certain organic sensations
authorizes the asylum patient to believe that the doctors have removed his
viscera.
In a letter published in part in Letters
of Wm James, one reads : “ The intellect is interpretative and critical of
its own interpretation, but there must have been a thesis to interpret, and
that thesis seems to me to be the non-rational sense of a ‘ higher ’ power.”
And, further on : “ May not this mystical testimony that there is a God be
true, even though the precise determinations, being so largely ‘ suggestive ’
contributions of our rational factor, should widely differ1 ? ”
In this passage, the error which I
have tried to lay bare is again clearly apparent. The thought of a “ higher
power ” is not an “ immediate ” datum of consciousness. It is already a product
of elaboration and interpretation ; it involves, in particular, judgments of
relative “ height ” or value of powers. It is, therefore, no more entitled to
claim invulnerability than any of the other, grosser and more obvious
interpretations of the ordinary mystic.
The wide-awake, rational consciousness
finds no difficulty in understanding why the “ kernel ” of the mystical experience
is describable as reconciliation, union, peace, rest, and the like. Are these
not the very terms which would come to the mind of a person who had undergone
the mental simplification characteristic of ecstatic trance ? Would a person
from whose consciousness the external world had disappeared, whose mental
activity had been reduced to a vague general idea of the presence of a
traditional God, whose affective life was on the point of peaceably dying
out—would such a person describe his condition as one of internal strife,
would he be impressed by the irreconcilable multiplicity of the elements
of experience ? Of course not. He would be able to find no better terms than
those actually used by the mystics, and, generally, by those familiar with
certain aspects of trance-consciousness. Why, then, ascribe a metaphysical
significance to that description ? Whatever contribution to knowledge may come
from that aspect of trance-experience must proceed from the critical activity
of the fully-awake mind working upon the whole range of human experience.
We are thus led to affirm that if
James found it possible to say that “ as a matter of fact and in point of logic
” the claim of the mystic (reduced to the minimum we have been discussing) “
escapes
1
From a letter to the Author. I might take this opportunity of
saying that when these Letters were published, none of my books had yet
appeared.
RELIGION,
SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY 311 our jurisdiction/’ it is, it seems, because he confused
more or less automatic or habitual causal interpretations of sense-data with
the sense-data themselves1.
The ‘‘ universality ” of the mystical
conviction is frequently offered in proof of its truth. But the truth of a
belief is not proved by the fact that it is shared by all known men. Moreover,
this conviction is, as a matter of fact, very far from common to all those who
have experienced trances possessing the traits singled out by James as
characteristic of mystical ecstasy (ineffability, noetic quality, transiency,
and passivity). Most of the users of narcotics and many of the subjects of
spontaneous trance regard its contents, just as they do their dreams, i.e., as
having no other than a subjective validity.
The history of the philosophers’ belief
in mystical revelation seems to announce the disappearance of the belief. At
the beginning, ecstatic trance was held to reveal extensive “ truths,” concrete
as well as abstract, for instance, the will of God at a particular juncture of
events. With Wm James, the revelation has become limited to a sense of safety,
of unity, and of harmony. With Wm Hocking it is attenuated still further and
becomes a mere “ That ” of which nothing more can be said.
* * *
William E. Hocking and religious
mysticism.—In the English
language it is Wm Hocking who, since James, has most comprehensively and
richly dealt with the philosophical problems of religious mysticism
. He is generally regarded
as a champion of mysticism. Yet a careful examination of his latest utterances
may leave one in doubt as to his present position. He complains that certain “
immediate ” qualities of the trance experience have unjustifiably been ascribed
to God : “ What I want to point out, is that these words, unitary, immediate,
ineffable, which at all events apply to the mystic’s experience, are
precisely the words which the
1 The argument against James’ position contained in the preceding
pages was urged in a criticism of the Varieties of Religious Experience
in the Intern. Jr. of Ethics, vol. XIV, 1904, pp. 322-39.
Comp. George A. Coe’s criticism of
James and of others in an unusually substantial paper on the Sources of the
Mystical Revelation, in the Hibbert Jr., vol. VI, 1907-8, pp.
359-72.
metaphysician applies to the mystic’s doctrine.
And I suggest that the misinterpretation of mysticism here in question is due
to the fact that what is a psychological report (and a true one) is
taken as a metaphysical statement (and a false one). From the fact that
one’s experience of God has been ‘ one, immediate, and ineffable,’ it does not
follow that God Himself is merely ‘ one, immediate and ineffable ’—and so a
Being wholly removed from all concrete reality. It is true that this inference
from the nature of the experience to the nature of its object is here of the
closest order ; and it is also true that many a mystic has committed himself to
that inference. But it is possible, and necessary, to reject it1.” “
An ‘ immediacy ’ does not legislate about what is beyond itself either to deny
it or to affirm it .” “ I judge, then, . . . that the marks commonly attributed to
the mystic absolute are in the first place so many contributions to mystic
psychology .”
These passages mean that what is
regarded by others (James among them) as an immediately given and invulnerable
revelation of the nature of God, is really an inference and, therefore,
authoritative only in so far as reason can make it so. For him the only unquestionable
content of the trance is a “ Something,” a “ That ” about which nothing more
can be said. Any knowledge whatsoever about it is the fruit of rational
thought; knowledge of God,is not a revelation or an intuition, it _is the
product of intellectual activity. If the foregoing statements represent
Hocking’s position correctly, he repudiates mysticism and agrees with us. For
we have held that, unwittingly, the savage infers identity of the Divine with
the plenitude of delight, power and freedom that comes to him in the earlier
phases of the drug ecstasy ; that, unwittingly, the NeoPlatonic philosopher infers
identity of the Absolute with the ultimate period of the trance, and that James
and others do likewise with certain feelings and attitudes prominent in a phase
of that experience.
James and the mystics in general (including
Bergson) have erred, according to Hocking, in placing mystical
knowledge—intuition or the immediately given—in hostile opposition to
conceptual knowledge. The relation is another one: “ Intuition must be regarded
not as a station, but as a point through which true knowledge must pass,
... as a mode of cognition by which conceptual knowledge is not so much
excluded as concentrated*.” “ Immediacy and idea are not disparate stuff ; they
are different stages of the same stuff, the same meaning1.” Both
intuition and interpretation are necessary in order to attain truth. Intuition
alone is empty. “ With these two methods, the way is open for a hopeful
resumption of metaphysical effort2.”
When you have said, as Professor
Hocking does, that the “ That” of mystical ecstasy has no meaning until
interpreted, that it is mindstuff or “ neutral-stuff,” out of which in an
active mind, knowledge issues, logic compels you, it seems to hold that the
same is true of all the “ thats ” immediately given in any other experience.
The immediately-given in ecstasy is no longer isolated as a unique phenomenon ;
it is now properly classified together with the meaningless and yet potentially
meaningful Something which is at the root of every psychical experience
whatsoever. For, not only in mystical ecstasy but also in every perceptual
or affective experience, something unassailable and ineffable is givem Thus,
the metaphysical effort to find God is provided with a much broader intuitive
basis than that of mystical ecstasy alone ; its basis includes the “ given ” in
conscious experience generally. In the search for God no position of vantage
may now be claimed a priori for the immediately given in trance
experience.
To draw the above corollary of the
propositions laid down by Professor Hocking regarding the mystical revelation
is equivalent to a renunciation of the essential mystical position. But
Professor Hocking does not draw that corollary, does not renounce mysticism ;
for, notwithstanding the passages we have quoted, he holds that the mystical
experience reveals God directly, authoritatively. Otherwise, what is the
meaning of these utterances : “ The mystic knows the Truth, so he assures us :
but he seems to spin hopelessly about this point, and to come forward very
slowly with any statement of its contents. May it be that the mystic is more
sure that he is sure than of what he is sure—except that he is
sure of God and of his own relation to God3 ? ” “ Let the mystic,
then, be certain of his ‘ the truth,’ his ‘ God’s truth,’ and do not enviously
require him at every turn to say what the truth contains4.” “ The
mystic gives us the
1
Mind, loc. cit., p. 44.
2
Rev. de M£ta. et de Morale, loc. cit., p. 451.
In his metaphysical search Professor
Hocking is moved by a desire to establish the existence of a God conceived so
as to fulfil human needs and aspirations, and he is of the opinion that
metaphysics leads to such a God and not merely to the empty Absolute of
Plotinus.
3
God in Human Experience, p. 454.
4
Ibid., p. 455.
thing which is to be modified . . . But who else could have pulled down
from heaven that substance1 ? ”
It seems after all that Hocking holds,
with James and the mystic philosophers in general, that the immediate in
ecstasy does not remain meaningless until rationally interpreted ; it is not on
a level with the immediate in conscious experience in general, for it conveys a
direct and truthful assurance of God and of the mystic’s own relation to him;
it is a divine substance known intuitively to r come “ from heaven.”
That first, immediate apprehension does not, it is true, lay hold on all the
knowledge about God which we might like to have, but it suffices to lift man up
above fatal doubt, and disbelief. Further knowledge must wait upon intellectual
labour.
* * *
If we reject the mystical claim, even
when it is limited as by Hocking, it is because the passage from sensations and
feelings, whatever they may be, to the thought of “ God,” however understood,
seems to us always an elaboration of the “ given.” To think
1 God in Human Experience, p. 460.
In order to do full justice to
Professor Hocking’s argument for mysticism, it would be necessary to give an
adequate abstract of several chapters of his book. The following quotations,
although mere disjointed fragments, may stimulate the reader’s curiosity.
“ It may be that the more we press the
conclusions of our position, the less we shall be able to recognise in any
concrete characters of our own experience, the experience here described. We
have made all social experience depend upon a conscious knowledge in experience
of a being, who in scope and power might well be identified with God. We have
been led by the successive requirements of logic to the position that our first
and fundamental social experience is an experience of God ” (295).
“
God is known as that of which I am primarily certain ; and being
certain, am certain of self and of my world of men and men’s objects. .1. shall
always be more certain .that God.is, than what he is.: it is the
age-long problem of religion to firing to light the deeper characters of this
fundamental experience. But the starting point of this development (which we
shall have occasion to trace in some rough way) is no mere That Which, without
predicates. Substance is known as Subject : reality from the beginning is known
as God. The idea of God is not an attribute which in the course of experience I
come to attach to my original whole idea : the unity of my world which makes it
from the beginning a whole, knowable in simplicity, is the unity of other
Self-hood.
“
God then is immediately known, and permanently known, as the Other
Mind which in creating Nature is also creating me. Of this knowledge nothing
can despoil us ; this knowledge has never been wanting to the self-knowing mind
of man ” (296-7).
“
In applying the name of God to the Other Mind which in sustaining
physical experience does continually create and communicate itself to us, we
have gone indeed beyond our warrant. We have what must justify the animism of
our ancestors—the inevitable animism of all mankind ” (300).
“
Man knows yvell that he is.mot alone ; he does not so well know in
what compamcmship he. is. The knowledge of the presence of spirit beyond'self
is no conjecture ; nor does this social experience ever arise. Man’s
world is from the first a living world, even a divine world ; and primitive
animism is in so far no mere theory, but a report of certain and intimate
experience ” (317).
See also
the footnotes to pages 449-450.
of God—any kind of god—on the occasion
of a sensory or affective experience, however unusual in intensity or quality,
is to ascribe a cause to an intuitive, immediate experience. The confusion of
this automatic assignment of a cause with immediate, intuitive, experience
reveals how deeply ingrained is the habit of assigning causes. It begins to be
formed at birth and soon becomes mechanical. When the uncivilized hears
God in the thunder, he is subject to the same illusion, of immediacy as is the
Christian who feels God in an influx of. moral energy when in ecstasy or
ordinary prayer.
* * Ms
This book began with the examination
of experiences regarded by uncivilized man as revelation of, or union with, the
Divine. They were submitted to a critical analysis, and recently acquired
scientific knowledge of the psycho-physiological effects of certain ecstasyproducing
drugs was brought to bear upon them. It appeared that the early mystics owe
their belief mainly to delightful impressions of limitless power and freedom,
to altered self-feelings, to the impression that the soul is liberated from the
body, to automatisms including wonderful sensory hallucinations. Now, every one
of these impressions and beliefs can be satisfactorily explained as the result
of psycho-physiological forces set in activity or inhibited by the drug. We
then examined the mystical ecstasies of the Yogin and of a group of Christian
mystics. Their own descriptions were compared with non-religious
ecstasies—those of poets, of epileptics, of ordinary normal persons.
In all these ecstasies, the same
fundmental characteristics were discovered, and we came to the conclusion that
there need be no differences between religious and non-religious ecstasies
other than those due to a different interpretation—the interpretation being
itself the cause of important affective and volitional phenomena.
Particular attention was given to the
impressions of ineffability and of illumination or revelation ; for they,
perhaps more than any other feature, are responsible for the persistency of the
belief in the divineness of ecstasy. Both these traits are frequent in trance—
whether it be produced spontaneously or by drugs such as ether and nitrous
oxide. They occur also in near-sleep conditions arising naturally. Any
narrowing of consciousness or any dissociation of mental connexions, whatever
the cause, may be accompanied by these strange impressions. We have offered a
psychological explanation of the impression of illumination which to us appears
sufficient.
Other features of the mystical trance
to which philosophers have ascribed much evidential value (unity, harmony, and
the sense of security which goes with them) have also received in the preceding
pages an explanation which should relieve one of any inclination to appeal to a
divine illumination ; they are unavoidable products of the psychological
condition in which an entranced person finds himself.
Thus, our comparative investigation of
trance-states with their impression of unlimited power and of passivity, their
excitement and quietude, their hallucinations and exclusion of the world of
sense, their absolute certitude and moments of doubt, their harmony and
ineffability, led us to the conclusion that mystical trance contains nothing,
no “ sign ” no “ thesis,” no “ That, deman ding, from the informed and
reflective mind, belief .in divine revelation—unless, however, one should take
the term “ divine ” as designating merely the general ground of life ; or
unless one should conceive of “ God ” as manifesting himself in those ways of
physical and psychical nature of which the scientists find the laws. Should
one do so, then every -part and aspect of conscious life would, as well as the
mystical ecstatic-trance itself, be an expression of the Divine. But if the
regular, law-bound nature known to science should be called the “ Divine,” then
the essential claim of mysticism would be given up.
In seeking intercourse with God in the
disappearance of diversity, in the peace of utter surrender, in excruciating
delights, in a sense of freedom and illumination, the mystics have followed a
wrong way. These experiences reveal not the Christian God, but the lawful
workings of our psycho-physiological organisms. In that respect the mystical
experience is not of a nature other than that of the rest of conscious
experience. It points to the same conclusions as conscious life in general.
One might speculate and suppose that
when the higher mental fife and the activity of the external senses have
ceased, the primordial quality of organic sensations and feelings is revealed.
On the brink of unconsciousness—whether it be the unconsciousness of sleep or
of abnormal trance produced in any way whatsoever—consciousness is at its
simplest; it is continuity without parts, and, therefore, let us say, eternal
and timeless. This might be spoken of as the Urgrund, to use a term of
the German pantheistic mystics, and it might be surmised that it is in this
form that consciousness began in the organic world. Thus far one might
speculate. But what an incredible confusion it would be to regard the Urgrund,
so disclosed at the vanishing point of consciousness, as a revelation of the
nature of the Perfect God made flesh in Jesus Christ and worshipped in the
churches !
* * *
Is it claimed that this investigation
amounts to a proof of the non-existence of God ? It amounts in the author’s
opinion to no more than a demonstration of the total insufficiency of the
ground on which rests, on the whole, the belief in the existence of the gods of
the religions. Of other conceptions of God or gods this book speaks only
incidentally, and without definitely offering any conclusion. We have not
presumed to say how the ultimate source of the new energies by which the
mystic is enriched is to be conceived. We have limited ourselves to the
affirmation that there are in the human being innate sources of energy,
customarily spoken of as innate tendencies or instinct and regarded as
dependent upon or connected with the presence of physiological (neural)
mechanisms. And we have added that physical and moral health, and with them
happiness, depend upon an adequate stimulation and an harmonious manifestation
of these sources of energy. We might have used the expression “ subconscious
sources of energy.” But that would not have constituted an addition of real
knowledge, nor would it have made anything clearer. When these and other things
of the same purport have been said, the questions of the ultimate origin and of
the nature of " God,” as raised by the philosopher, remain unanswered.
* * *
It has seemed to us that, for the
philosopher, the fact of greatest significance in religious mysticism is
perhaps not the accession of energy but the direction it takes, i.e., the
manifestation of a will to actualize an ideal, thought of as divine and
involving the socialization of humanity. We have seen how great Christian
mystics strove to establish the Kingdom of God on earth. Without regarding
their social ideal as perfectly conceived, the Divine in them might be seen, if
anywhere, in the unrelenting effort with which they endeavoured to realize in
themselves and in others a lofty social ideal. In this effort they were not
attempting to adapt themselves to the demands of actual society : they strove
instead, with unconquerable tenacity, to create something to which the World
opposes a stubborn and cruel resistance.
That direction of the mystical effort
is perhaps the thing most worthy of notice. It might be spoken of as a
manifestation of the Life-Energy, of the Elan Vital. ' But, then, let us
not deceive ourselves. These words would be merely names for the designation
of what has been observed. The important thing to do is to determine the
conditions of the manifestation of the Life-Energy in order that we may control
it more and more.
It is of course quite clear that,
conceived in this way, the Divine does not manifest itself only, or even
especially, in mystical ecstasies.
It is equally evident that this
Life-Energy does not delight in praises and thanksgiving ; it is not the God
worshipped in the Churches.
* * *
For the psychologist who remains
within the province of science, religious mysticism is a revelation not of God
but of man. Whoever wants to know the deepest that is in man, the hidden forces
that drive him onward, should become a student of mysticism. And if knowing man
is not knowing God, it is nevertheless only when in possession of an adequate
knowledge of man that metaphysics may expect to fashion an acceptable
conception of the Ultimate.
* * *
We find much satisfaction in being in
agreement with Henri Delacroix and George A. Coe with regard to the illusory
nature of the mystical claim. In the Hibbert paper already referred to, the
latter writes : " The mystic acquires his religious convictions precisely
as his non-mystical neighbour does, namely through tradition and instruction,
auto-suggestion grown habitual, and reflective analysis. The mystic brings his
theological beliefs to the mystical experience ; he does not derive them from
it'.” “ We may even go so far as to say that all real religion consists
ultimately in some mystical practice, namely, the making real to ourselves of
that which we do not perceive. Here is where the mystic’s psychology falls
short. He will not admit that his certainty of spiritual things is
self-produced ; he insists that it is infused
." " The tendency of this discussion is toward the view
that the supposed mystical revelation is part and parcel of the general
historical movement of religious life; its sources are the same, and the superior
certainty and authority that it claims for itself are illusory
."
The position of James B. Pratt is less
sharply cut than our own or that of the two authors just named. The remarks
added in fine print to the chapter on the Sense of Presence may interest
the reader in this connexion.
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BELIEF IN A
PERSONAL SUPERHUMAN CAUSE AND THE WELFARE OF
HUMANITY
Our purpose in this book has been to learn whatever we might about
the mystical experience ; our inquiry has, therefore, moved forward regardless
of practical consequences. But we are loth to bring these pages to a close
without some reference to a widespread opinion concerning the consequences of
the loss of belief in a superhuman personal Cause.
We shall not be primarily concerned
with grand mysticism, not even with moderate mysticism, but with the
traditional belief, wherever it may appear, in a personal, superhuman Will
amenable to human intellectual and affective influences and regarded as a
direct cause of “ outer ” or “ inner ” events.
As to grand mysticism itself, no one
apt to read this book would be inclined to commend it to general emulation,
either as seen in the Yogi who spend their lives in a state of hebetude
entirely unfit for any human activity, or as seen in the Christian saint of the
type of St Marguerite Marie, described by Mgr Bougaud, Bishop of Laval. She had
been growing more and more incapable of performing the services expected of a
nun : “ They tried her in the infirmary, but without much success, although her
kindness, zeal and devotion were without bounds, and her charity rose to acts
of such a heroism that our readers would not bear the recital of them. They
tried her in the kitchen, but were forced to give it up as hopeless—everything
dropped out of her hands. The admirable humility with which she made amends for
her clumsiness could not prevent this from being prejudicial to the order and
regularity which must always reign in a community. They put her in the school,
where the little girls cherished her, and cut pieces out of her clothes (for
relics) as if she were already a saint, but where she was too absorbed inwardly
to pay the necessary attention. Poor dear sister, she lived on earth in 1675
still less than in 1672, and they had to leave her in her heaven1 ”
! To love God in this way is to open the door to
1 Mgr Bougaud. Histoire de la Bienheureuse Marguerite Marie,
Paris, 1900, pp. 266-7.
some of the worst perversions and
distortions possible to human nature.
* * *
The traditional opinion is that the
loss of the belief in question would be calamitous. To this the answer may be
made that if the scientific conception should be the true one, whatever dismay
and discouragement it might produce at first in a limited number of persons,
nevertheless, its acceptance would eventually be, on the whole, for the best.
This general conviction in the superior value of knowledge may be supported in
this instance by certain considerations and by specific information which we
shall now set forth in part.
There was a time when it was wicked
impiety to regard a storm as a phenomenon exclusively determined by physical
forces. Among the educated that belief may be said to have almost entirely disappeared.
Would anyone, for the good of humanity, return to the attitude of the heroes of
the Iliad and of the Odyssey regarding the relation of the gods to nature, or,
for that matter, to a genuine belief in the efficacy of prayer in the weather,
as implied in our Prayer Books ? Was it a loss to replace the gods of the wind,
of the storms, of the waves, etc., by orderly impersonal forces ? And is it
impiety to refuse to see in these events the benevolent or wrathful hand of God
stretched out to reward or punish ?
One of the gains—but not the only
one—resulting from this changed understanding of nature is the recent
strikingly rapid growth of the physical sciences. It is in part due to the
unity of efforts made possible by the almost complete disappearance from the
educated classes of a real belief in the divine personal causation of physical
phenomena.
The same transformation is also almost
completely achieved with regard to the causes of bodily diseases. Would any
educated person say that, in matters of disease, the increased reliance on
hygiene, on surgery, on serum treatment, and the corresponding decrease in
genuine reliance upon God, betokens a loss to humanity ? Who, except the
benighted, would to-day balance faith in God with vaccination for small-pox or
typhoid ? What would the Chinese better give up—belief in superhuman personal
causation of disease or the diffusion of medical knowledge now taking place in
their country under the direction of the Rockefeller Institute ? There are
those who would answer that they would better keep both. This solution will be
considered presently.
With regard to divine personal
causation in matters psychical, a corresponding change seems to be in progress.
Here also, if much more slowly, the belief in the intervention of a personal
God according to his good pleasure or in response to man’s request, or desire,
is; giving way. The immaturity of psychological science
accounts forT, the incompleteness of its present successjn replacing
in"TliF’mind s of the educated the
conception of personal causation by that of law. That accounts also for the
keen apprehension still felt by many of these persons at the threat of the loss
of the traditional belief.
One may, however, even now venture the
statement that in the history of humanity the rise of that science during the
second half of the last century will appear as a fact of greater practical
importance than the far-reaching applications of the mechanical and of the
biological sciences.
One of the first outcomes—not
altogether desirable—of early scientific work in normal and abnormal psychology
has been the production of mind-cure movements, monsters compounded of false religious
beliefs and of scraps of ill-understood mental science1. In the wake
of these hybrids have come other premature and often ill-considered systems of
treatment by suggestion or auto-suggestion.
A more recent product of the same
strands of psychology may be seen in the work of Freud, a Viennese psychiatrist
of gen ms, but without any aptitude forexact science.
His system of psychotherapy called “ psychoanalysis,” is so obviously lacking
in accuracy and completeness that it may not long endure in the form given it
by its author. Nevertheless, its success in forcing upon the physician and
others a recognition of the effectiveness of psychical methods in the cure of a
great variety of disorders of body and mind gives to the movement a real
importance.
The most careful and comprehensive
work in the field of psychotherapy has been done in France. To that country,
mainly, belongs the honour of having initiated and developed the studies in
abnormal psychology connected with the so-called “ subconscious ” and their
practical applications to the restoration and increase of bodily and mental
powers. William James’ prophetic utterance that it was the most important
movement of modem psychology may be said to have already been proved true. It
is in Pierre Janet’s work and especially in his monumental Medications
Psychologiques1 that one must look for the ripest knowledge and
the finest art in this field.
The psychiatrist has come to regard
his problem as being the finding of ways and means :
1.
To save energy by simplifying life and by eliminating the waste
due to inner antagonisms, contradictions, inhibitions, repressions—whether
these be the result of intellectual insufficiency or of moral defects.
2.
To stimulate sources of energy that have remained untapped and thus
to lift life up to a higher psycho-physiological level.
3.
To organize life on a basis of enduring interests and unifying
conceptions and aims, and thus to complete the saving and stimulating of
energy.
At the end of the chapter on the Sense
of Presence, both the directing and the energizing influence of the physician
have been illustrated. A psychiatrist in possession of the higher and finer
psychological knowledge takes the place both of the physician and of the
religious Director of the soul. He not only arrests waste and generates energy
by physiological means but, as he is also a practical psychologist, he
organizes and directs its manifestations by proposing goals and principles of
conduct which it is quite proper to call “ spiritual.” Thus he may produce the
happiness which comes with the peace of passivity and the peace of activity.
There is neither rashness nor impiety
in affirming of mystics such as Suzo, St Theresa, St Catherine of Genoa, Mme
Guyon and St Marguerite Marie, that the best psychotherapy of to-day would have
saved them a great deal of physical and spiritual suffering, and that it would
have led them along natural ways to an earlier self-fulfilment and to a degree
of perfection in no way inferior, ethically or otherwise, to the one which they
attained during the active phases of their lives.
The time is not far off when it will
seem just as out of place to treat cases of social maladjustment by the
mystical religious method, as it now would be to deliver for exorcism to the
ministers of any religion certain unfortunate inmates of our insane asylums.
There are those who will exclaim in
derision : " How could man ever take the place of God ? ” It must be
granted that man never could take the place of a god maintaining with man the
relation assumed to exist by the religions. But if, as this book
1 Les Medications Psychologiques, 3 vols, Paris, Felix Alcan, 1919.
It might be added that to France also
psychology owes the first scale of mental measurements—the Binet-Simon scale.
seems to show, the.Ultimate Power does
not stand to man in that personal relation, the question is not one concerning
the replacement of that God by man, but one concerning the replacement of an
illusory belief in such a God by a more accurate understanding of the causes of
whatever effectiveness is possessed by that belief.
It might be argued that even though
there should be no satisfactory proof of the existence of the gods of the
religions, a statesmanlike policy would continue to use both the scientific and
the religious methods. For it will be truly said that, when God is conceived as
a God of love and righteousness, there is assuredly in his worship an indirect,
or, as some call it, a psychological source of intellectual steadiness, of
character improvement, and of moral courage and happiness. No statesman worthy
of the name would, however, formulate his policy in the matter without first
seeking to ascertain whether the belief in a providential God entails also
disadvantages, and whether the values it yields cannot be secured in totality
or in part by other means.
John Keeble tells us that he wrote the
Christian Year with the chief purpose of exhibiting the “ soothing
tendency ” of the Prayer Book. He was apparently one of the tormented and wearied
souls who above all yearn for peace. But the Prayer Book is, of course, not to
be recommended because of its soothing effects without regard to what else it
may do ; otherwise syrups for children and drugs for adults would
advantageously replace that book. Before one may safely confirm mystical piety
in the place of dignity which it has gained, all its consequences
whether immediate or remote, direct or indirect—not only its desirable
fruits—must be taken into account, and it must be clear that no other method
can replace it advantageously.
The belief that the conception of God
embodied in Christian worship corresponds perfectly to objective reality and
that it “ works ” adequately is so profoundly rooted in the Christian
worshippers that a mere hint of possible evil resulting from it will seem to
them preposterous. Since the days of Pascal we have been told : “ Better in any
case behave as if God existed ; for if he should not exist you would lose
nothing. Whereas, should you behave as if he did not exist, you would run the
risk of losing eternal life.” The modem World no longer sees the problem in
this naive way. It may be shown that the belief in a God who, according to the
biblical saying, does not permit even a sparrow to fall to the ground without
His Will,
is open to serious objections
It is unfortunate that these
objections are in the main beyond the unaided observation of the average man,
and that the conception of impersonal cause, particularly with regard to
certain " spiritual ” experiences, does too much violence to habits of
mind, older even than the race, to secure a ready hearing. For an instant the
believer may grasp the truth, only to slip back the next moment to the habitual
animistic interpretation. On the ground of that almost irresistible
inclination, he justifies to himself his irrationality by repeating the
comfortable saying that, in spiritual things, feeling is a safer guide than
reason.
The harm done by false beliefs, such
as the one under discussion, is not only that in various ways they impede and
discourage the seeker after knowledge which would place in human hands a large
measure of control of the psychical forces, but also that they obstruct the
recruiting of scientific workers.
So long as the belief in superhuman
personal causation was universal and supported by the irresistible prestige of
the established religions it blocked any other conception, however fruitful it
might have proved to be. And even when the conception of impersonal, regular,
predictable, and controllable forces had become established in some minds,
little progress could be made in the scientific understanding of human nature
in the face of the opposition, active or passive, of a large and influential
portion of society. The traditional belief in a God-Providence amenable to
human influence, together with semi-magical beliefs and practices in physical
and mental therapy, in social reform and in religion, continue to absorb, even
in the most favoured nations, a large share of energy and wealth and to exert a
paralyzing influence upon the progress of knowledge.
We are no longer in the dark
concerning the prevalence of the two main traditional religious beliefs among
the intellectual leaders. A careful statistical investigation carried out in
the United States, according to accepted statistical methods, has yielded the
following percentages of believers:
|
Believers
in the God of Physical |
Biolo |
Histor |
Sociolo-. |
Psycholo |
|
the
Christian Churches. Scientists. |
gists. |
ians. |
gists. |
gists. |
|
Lesser Men .. ..
49.7 |
39-i |
63.0 |
29.2 |
32.1 |
|
Greater Men.. .. 34.8 Believers
in Immortality. |
16.9 |
32.9 |
19-4 |
13-2 |
|
Lesser Men .. ..
57.1 |
45-1 |
67.7 |
52.2 |
26.9 |
|
Greater Men.. ..
40.0 |
25-4 |
35-3 |
27.1 |
8.8 |
These figures show that the belief in the God under discussion1
is still widely prevalent among intellectual leaders in the United
1 A God acting upon the physical world, or at least upon man, at
man’s request, desire, or desert, i.e., the God of the established Christian
religion whatever form it may have taken.
States. Especially significant,
however, is the discovery that unbelief is very much more frequent among the
more than among the less distinguished, and that not only the degree of ability
but also the kind of knowledge possessed is significantly related to the
rejection of these beliefs.
“ The correlation shown, without
exception, in every one of our groups between eminence and disbelief appears to
me of momentous significance. In three of these groups (biologists, historians,
and psychologists) the number of believers among the men of greater distinction
is only half, or less than half, the number of believers among the less
distinguished men. I do not see any way to avoid the conclusion that disbelief
in a personal God and in personal immortality is.directly
proportional to abilities making for success in the science& in question.
What these abilities are, we shall see in the following chapter.
“ A study of the charts, with regard
to the kind of knowledge which favours disbelief, shows that the historians and
the physical scientists provide the greater ; and the psychologists, the
sociologists, and the biologists, the smaller number of believers. The
explanation I have offered is that psychologists, sociologists, and biologists
in very large numbers recognize fixed orderliness in organic and psychical
life, and not merely in inorganic existence; while frequently physical
scientists recognize the presence of invariable law in the inorganic world
only. The belief in a personal God as defined for the purpose of our
investigation is, therefore, less often possible to students of psychical and
of organic life than to physical scientists.
“ The place occupied by the historians
next to the physical scientists would indicate that, for the present, the reign
of law is not so clearly revealed in the events with which history deals as in
biology, economics, and psychology. A large number.,of historians, continue to
see the hand of God in human affairs. The influence, destructive of Christian
beliefs, attributed in this interpretation to more intimate knowledge of
organic and psychical life, appears incontrovertibly, as far as psychical life
is concerned, in the remarkable fact that, whereas in every other group the
number of believers in immortality is greater than that in God, among the
psychologists the reverse is true ; the number of believers in immortality
among the greater psychologists sinks to 8.8 per cent. One may affirm it seems
that, in general, the greater the ability of the psychologist, as a
psychologist, the more difficult it becomes for him to believe in the continuation
of individual.life after bodily death1.”
1 The Belief in God and Immortality, 2nd Ed., Chicago, The Open Court Publishing Co., 1921. This book
is made up of three parts, Part II (pp. 172-287)
But the pressure exerted by public
opinion in favour of the traditional belief in God is vastly stronger in the
United States than the prevalence of the belief among men of science would
warrant. This appeared in several ways in the statistical investigation just
referred to1, and may be inferred from recent happenings in that
country .
And yet the nation is assuredly not
Christian in so far as a real belief in the government of men’s affairs by a
divine Person is a Christian belief. Statesmen trust in God no more than ward
politicians. Their every step repudiates the idea that they regard God as in
any degree a partner in the management of international relations or in
municipal slate-making. In the conduct of petty business as in that of vast
affairs of state there is nowhere any convincing hint of an effective belief in
divine action. The meagre remnants of social tradition expressive of that
belief seem now pitifully out of place. The prayers to the Almighty of the
Chaplain of Congress, the Yearly Thanksgiving Proclamation, and the like, are
now unbecoming formalism.
The
maintenance of gestures and professions of belief, in the presence of
persistent and detailed denial in action, works nowhere more disastrously than
in the churches. Unbelief in the God- Providence is, in churches and
theological seminaries, fatal to intellectual honesty, and it is the main cause
of their weakness. Their influence has waned because of the decline of faith in
the fundamental Christian dogma1. As the rehabilitation of that
belief seems to be made hopeless by every forward step of science, the recovery
of the churches is to be sought in such a transformation of the conception of
God as would make it generally acceptable to modem scientific scholarship. The
beneficent forces to-day at cross purposes in humanity, and mutually
destructive, would then find an harmonious expression. Religion and science
would work hand in hand for the production of a better and a happier—a diviner—
man2.
* * *
The traditional belief in divine
personal causation, strikingly embodied in religious mysticism, works perhaps
nowhere so mischievously as in its implication that ethical knowledge and moral
energy are in the custody of a personal Divinity and that this knowledge and
energy are transmitted to man in consequence of a personal relationship with
that God, in particular during mystical worship. The fear of losing that divine
assistance accounts for much of the desperation with which the best among
Christians cling to the traditional belief. In Chapter XII of the Belief in
God and Immortality, we have discussed the social origin of moral ideas and
inspiration. The following extracts are taken from that chapter.
“ Our alleged essential dependence
upon transcendental beliefs is belied by the most common experiences of daily
life. Who does not feel the absurdity of the opinion that the lavish care of a
sick child by a mother is given because of a belief in God and immortality ?
Are love of father and mother on the part of children, affection and
1
Not the disbelief in the Virgin Birth, but unbelief in the kind of
God- Providence implied in the worship of all the Christian churches, is the
more profound cause of their palsy.
2
It may be recalled in this connexion that the religions have never
been protagonists of higher scientific knowledge. As soon as it became
evident that science struck at the root of many of the dogmas officially
regarded as essential to one or the other of the religions, most of their
ministers and adherents became openly opposed to the development of higher
scientific education, or at least regarded it with misgiving.
The past and present coldness, not to
say active opposition, to higher scientific training among the sponsors of the
organized Christian religion will of necessity continue so long as the
conception of. God set forth in creeds and books of common worship remains what
it is. To-day, in the United States, the Fundamentalists are directly or
indirectly, wittingly or unwittingly, hindering the development of the
biological sciences, even though their great practical value has been
convincingly demonstrated.
serviceableness between brothers and
sisters, straightforwardness and truthfulness between businessmen essentially
dependent upon these beliefs ? What sort of person would be the father who
would announce divine punishment or reward in order to obtain the love and
respect of his children ?
“ The heroism of religious martyrs is
often flaunted as a marvellous instance of the unique sustaining strength
derived from the belief in a personal God and in heaven. And yet, for every
martyr of this sort, there has been one or more heroes who has risked his life
for a noble cause, without the comfort which these beliefs may bring. The very
present offers almost countless instances of martyrs to the cause of humanity
who were strangers to the belief in God and immortality. How many men and women
have in the past decade gladly offered and not infrequently lost their lives in
the cause of freedom, or justice, or science ?
“ Nothing could be more evident than
that the approval of God and the assurance of eternal happiness are not
original motives for the generosity with which man offers up his life. The
fruitful deeds of heroism are at bottom inspired not by the thought of God and
of a future life, but by innate tendencies or promptings that have reference to
humanity. Self-sacrifice, generosity, is rooted in nothing less superficial and
accidental than social instincts older than the human race, for they are
already present in a rudimentary form in the higher animals.
“ There is no simpler nor better
statement of the origin of the love of God than the well-known Biblical passage
: ‘ If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for he that
loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not
seen.’ In the education of the young, as well as in the reformation of the
warped adult, the truth of this is ever seen anew. It is love of man
that.convinces child and hardened sinner alike of the lovejof God.”
The evils bred by the traditional
conception of God may be called by the general name of “ other worldliness.” It
would be difficult to evaluate the harm done to humanity in the past by the
conviction that the real destination of man is the World to Come, and equally
difficult to estimate the harm done by the conviction that for its ethical
improvement society is dependent upon a personal God. If these evils are of
lesser magnitude now than in the past, it is because the traditional belief has
lost some of its ancient potency, and because the sense of responsibility of
the individual for the material and spiritual welfare of society has grown
correspondingly greater. In order that he may come to a full realization that
he and he alone is his brother’s keeper, it is necessary that man should
entirely give up the belief in personal, super-human causation. Divided
responsibility works no better in religion than in business.
* * *
It will not be denied that by the
acquisition of a wealth of physical and psychical knowledge, and by its
applications to the satisfaction of physical and moral needs (both in the way
of physical appliances and of social institutions), society has begun to fulfil
the desires and aspirations insistently expressed to God in worship. Some degree
of self-realization is now possible for all; and, as to the unfortunate, the
sick, the aged, they may to-day, in the most civilized communities, place their
trust in man with some measure of assurance.
It is customary in religious circles
to limit to physical and intellectual things the improvement in the individual
which may be expected as a consequence of the natural development of society.
And yet, to raise man economically above the condition of a beast of burden, to
free woman from servitude and to deliver both slave and master from the moral
evil attached to that relation, to train and enlighten the mind, are certainly
primary conditions for the spiritual flowering of human nature. The most
serious of the indictments against the belief in a superhuman personal source
of spiritual progress is that this belief stands in the way of making full use
of the real source of spiritual discernment, i.e., the teachings and the
training of social life.
The main problem raised by admirable
characters refers to the sources of their excellences. The biological and the
psychological sciences are now contributing to the solution of that great
problem. And when it is considered that men in the ancient as well as in the
modem world (a Buddha Gautama, a Socrates, a Marcus Aurelius), entertaining
other conceptions of the Divine, have shone with a beauty similar to that of
the great Christians, it becomes clear that belief in the particular conception
of God with which we are concerned is an irrelevant circumstance. Innumerable
believers in the traditional God grovel in spiritual darkness, while some who
entertain a very different conception of divinity are among the beacons by
which humanity has steered its upward course.
A blending of humility and
self-confidence, sympathy with the weak and defective, abhorrence of weakness
and vice, awe and reverence for the mysteries of life and death, the
consciousness of being one with the Whole, the faith that the Universe is
somehow rational, and the mental unity, strength, peace, and happiness which
come to the possessor of these virtues and beliefs, are in no way exclusively
bound to the conception of the personal God of the Christian books of worship.
* * *
It would be indeed surprising if in
religious mysticism, a movement which began almost with the birth of man and
has never ceased to engross the attention and to receive the unbounded admiration
of many, there was nothing deserving a permanent place among the means of
self-improvement. The traditional conception of the mystical Agent might be
wrong, certain alleged boons of mystical ecstasy might be illusory or worse,
and yet it might still be possible to vindicate it in some of its features.
We have seen that the mystics obtain
an assurance of marvellous knowledge and abilities ; a delightful impression of
freedom and unlimited power ; and, in the higher religions, an ethical
purification and unification which, in their estimation, makes the universal
Will their own Will. Much, but not all, of this is illusory. Speaking of Christian
mysticism we shall say that the refreshment incident to the abandoning of the
complications, the struggles, and the worries of life ; the unification of the
mind by purification (temporary though it may be) from egoistic tendencies and
purposes; and the comfort and optimism of the belief in the sustaining presence
of God are all vast and desirable realities.
Let it be recalled now that these
results follow upon the practice of even those moderate forms of mystical
worship which are common in the Christian churches. The first step in the
production of the mystical state is Meditation, which is described as the
focussing of attention upon some thought or object. Then comes Contemplation
during which the discursive activity of the mind is further reduced. The mind
is absorbed in some ‘ ‘ simple affective thought. ’ ’ After that, if the
mystical process continues, the characteristics of trance manifest themselves
more clearly: the senses cease altogether to respond to external stimulation
and the soul, conscious only of its closeness to God, seems entirely withdrawn
within itself. Total unconsciousness may bring the experience to an end.
Now the early stages of this mystical
journey, Meditation and Contemplation, constitute prayer when begging and
intercessory prayer has given place to the higher form of it prevalent in
Christianity.
Let it be
recalled, further, that neither the production of the mental states
characteristic of mystical worship, nor its essential effects necessitate a
belief in the causal activity of a personal Agent, and that, when that causal
conception is detached from the mystical method, its kinship to certain recent
psychotherapeutic methods becomes obvious. It will be sufficient to mention
here the therapeutic use made of suggestion during hypnosis and near-sleep
states ; the related methods of various schools of mind-curors ; and, more
recently still, the method of the psychoanalysts who aim at the re-establishment
of mental wholeness, at the unification of consciousness.
At bottom the problem, in these cults
and in these scientific or semi-scientific practices, is always to reorganize
the mental life upon a more stable basis, to synthetize it and make it whole by
removing excrescences, contradictions, suppressions, amnesias, and the like.
And the method of cure, whatever its name, involves in every instance the
placing of the subject in a state of relaxation, passivity, and mental
simplification. His gaze is turned away from the unmanageable present, away
from the changing surface of things, in the expectation that something deeper,
truer, more lasting, will assert itself and assume a controlling and unifying
role. And so psychotherapists and ethical teachers, even while rejecting the
orthodox theology, may join with the mystic, John Woolman, when he writes : “
The necessity of an inward stillness has appeared clearly to my mind, in true
silence strength is renewed, the mind is weened from all things, save as they
may be enjoyed in the divine Will.”
We are thus led to regard the mystical
method of soul-cure as an approximation to the present-day, more or less
scientific, methods of psychotherapy. The effects of these related methods have
a common two-fold source : (1) A moral and physical refreshment takes place,
quite irrespective of any idea or purpose in the mind of the person. This is a
direct consequence of the physiological change produced by the passage from the
ordinary condition of consciousness to the trance-like state. We recall in this
connexion Maupassant’s striking description of the effects of a drunken bout: “
A good bath of forgetfulness out of which one arises done up and yet renewed; a
great purge that scours, as with fire, body and soul.” (2) The ideas and
purposes dominant in the subject’s mind exert an unusually powerful influence
because all these related states constitute conditions of increased
suggestibility.
Among the tasks of psychology is the
determination of the mental condition which would make a person receptive in
the highest degree to the influences, internal or external, to which it may be
desirable to subject him. It is clear that to push the trance to complete
unconsciousness is an error, for complete unconsciousness means entire
unresponsiveness, instead of a condition of increased suggestibility.
* * *
The cry, raised on every hand, that
Christianity has failed is answered by the counter-cry, “ Christianity never
yet has been tried 1 ” To this a sociologist makes the retort: “ If a religion
which has existed for two thousand years and has been held officially by the
most powerful nations for fifteen hundred years has not been tried, it has
failed.”
If the ideals of the Christian
religion have conspicuously failed of realization, it is not only because they
are ideals ; it is also because the causal conception embodied in
Christian worship is largely inefficient to produce the desired results.
Supplications to the Almighty Father for protection from physical and moral
harm, thanks and praises to him for a share of prosperity and happiness, and
the search, in prayer and in communion with the alleged personal Cause of all
good things, for enlightenment and power, are methods possessing some degree of
utility, but they are now known not to be the most effective methods available.
If more rapid progress is to be made
towards the realization of ^the exalted aims of Christianity, its
primitive conception of causation, and the, methods of. .worship
dependent_uppn~it, will have to be replaced by a scientific understanding of
causation and by methods in agreement with it. Spiritual improvement may tfien
be expected to rival in rapidity the improvement in matters of health and
longevity which have taken place as consequences of the discovery and of the
application of medical knowledge.
* * *
It is not a replacement of the
religious spirit by science which is indicated here, but the inclusion into
religion of the relevant scientific knowledge. The hope of humanity lies in a
collaboration of religious idealism with science—the former providing the ideal
to be attained, and the latter, so far as it can, the physical and the
psychological means and methods of achievement.